


Love Another Day

by wittywords



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Justice League & Justice League Unlimited (Cartoons), Superman - All Media Types
Genre: Cuddling & Snuggling, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mpreg, Slash
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-26
Updated: 2017-07-28
Packaged: 2018-07-18 09:38:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 37
Words: 85,171
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7309777
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wittywords/pseuds/wittywords
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Returning home from a mission on an alien world, the heroes are ambushed. When Superman is captured, Batman must act to save him. What follows changes their lives.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: While I haven't added an official achieve warning, there will be one disturbing scene where one of the participants will not be able to give consent to the intercourse. Otherwise, my writing style is inclined towards fluffiness and drama. 
> 
> This is an MPREG fic. 
> 
> Other warnings: Possibly some violence, possibly some profanities, but I'm not big on using those.

The moments of silence ticked into nothingness and the stars on the Javelin view screen moved none at all. To them his entire life meant less than a blink of an eye. 

The perspective of time for the sentient species was relative. It depended heavily on the company and what they were occupied by. The company was more than agreeable to Kal-El. The root of the problem lay in reverse being true for his companion who spent majority of the trip responding to his inquiries with the maximum of three words, unless it strictly involved work. Considering how the mission took them far from the Solar System, the imposed lack of communication stretching for days gradually deepened Kal-El’s anxiety. The last two hours were the worst, perpetuated by guilt. If earlier Superman could have attributed the absence of socialisation to Batman’s natural inclination to avoid idle chit-chat, now he was sure the other had every reason to be mad at him. 

“I’ve input the data on the asteroid belt and upgraded our star charts,” he ventured apologetically. “This will prevent accidents in the future.” He expected a fair rebuke that to prevent such accidents Javelin had outer proximity sensors alerting the crew to the rapidly approaching objects that posed danger to the ship. It was his job to watch those sensors and he had failed spectacularly. 

Batman didn’t even honour that information with a grunt. His fingers were flying over the console to repair the damage to their cloaking device. It was an experimental piece of technology. Their mission was a good opportunity to test it. The trial was going smoothly until their ship got caught in an asteroid belt at high velocity. The impact came before the crew dropped speed and activated manoeuvring thrusters to get their ship through a cluttered field. After a gruelling hour they escaped without damaging any vital systems, but their cover was compromised at a worst possible place. 

They were travelling through a space sector dominated by a Vertrana planet, the home world of slavery and space piracy. No one entered the sector unarmed or alone, where being beaten and robbed was considered getting very lucky. It wasn’t uncommon to enslave the crews of the passing vessels and sell them to the highest bidder, mostly for satisfying the sexual needs. The habits on Vertrana were truly perverted. 

“I don’t suppose we can fix the damage from the cockpit. I’ll search for a place to land where we could conduct the repairs.”

Since Batman didn’t protest, Kal-El dropped his gaze to the accusingly blinking console lights. He scanned the area, doing his best to atone for his mistake. Superman didn’t chance another look at his companion whose only emotion was expressed in the thin line of the lips firmly set in disapproval. Batman hadn’t said a single accusing word since the incident and didn’t have to. He simply ignored Superman. 

This is how he missed the asteroid belt in the first place, by trying to subtly study his companion instead of working. Left together in an enclosed space, Kal-El committed to memory every line of the handsome profile. His heart fluttered madly, speeding up faster than light whenever a new elusive emotion flickered across Batman’s face as the other got various results of his activities, or stilled whenever the vigilante looked up and caught him staring. Luckily, Bruce must have attributed those stares to the desire for conversation. Had he known that it stemmed from an intense attraction, he would have thrown Kal-El out the airlock and told him to fly behind the Javelin. There was some unfairness to that judgement. Superman would never have made inappropriate advances since Bruce let him know in no uncertain terms that he couldn’t stand him. The most Kal-El aspired for was a decent conversation. His mind was occupied by figuring out how to get Bruce to open up if only a little bit, while mostly he left the computer to keep track of their position. The information they had on this sector was thorough. There shouldn’t have been any unexpected obstacles. That’s when they got hit.

Most problems spring up when you let your guard down. He was so stupid. No wonder Batman didn’t want to talk to him. Bruce was a brilliant man, on par with the most powerful beings on Earth due to his unyielding determination. Superman was awed by the strength of his character. While, what did Kal-El have except for the superpower? Without it he’d be klutzy Clark Kent from Smallville who messed up regularly and couldn’t even aspire for a date with Lois Lane. He could never have been a small fraction of a hero Batman was. In fact, Superman wasn’t sure he was even with those powers. The proof lay before him. How could he have been so senseless? 

“There is a moon with a minor deviation off course,” Kal-El reported to no one, fighting the urge to slump. “No breathable atmosphere, but the gravity will be merciful on the landing. It’s not too different from our Moon.” 

He got no reply. Maybe if they could fix the cloak quickly he’d earn some forgiveness. Three words were better than none. This is how it was with Batman, one step forward and two steps back, but he dared say on this mission it was mostly all back. Whenever Kal-El came close to cracking that hard exterior, something would go wrong and he would be thrown back at a vigilant distance, embarrassed that he kept bothering the man who clearly set up no trespassing signs outside his comfort zone. Any idiot would have read the message to keep away already. Clark couldn’t. He had to establish at least a decent work relationship for the League. The feebleness of this excuse ate at his conscience. He had been looking forward to this mission with hope that relying solely on each other would encourage a deeper interaction. He should have known better. After protesting bitterly, Batman conceded that only the two of them were able to take on the task. He went, but wrapped the silence around his armour like another impenetrable shield that yielded just a fraction on the way back once their mission was an unquestionable success. Not that he ever stopped the endless activity, engrossed in calculations, but he became more approachable by Batman’s standards. That is until Clark messed up. 

The alien moon surface couldn’t have appeared fast enough. The crumbling craters passed below the Javelin as it smoothly glided into a shielded space between them and touched down. 

“I’m going to check what kind of outer damage we’ve sustained.” 

Kal-El used some of his power to rise swiftly from the pilot seat and slip out before his companion could protest. Armed with tools, he was ready within two seconds. This meant Batman had to stay at the controls in case they needed an emergency take off. The communicator in his ear remained wrathfully quiet. The vigilante probably was offended by not being consulted. As one of the prototype builders, he knew more about the cloaking device than Superman. 

The depressurised bay door slid open with a hiss. Superman floated outside. He didn’t feel like stepping onto the unfriendly moon surface. Kal-El was relieved that he wasn’t stuck in the cockpit, while Bruce was taking the risk. The moon didn’t have an atmosphere, which didn’t mean some space germs didn’t inhabit it. On the universal scale these creatures inflated to a moderate dragon size and often came armed with a poisonous set of teeth. It was better to have those teeth sink into something more impenetrable than Batman’s armour, such as Superman’s skin. 

‘You don’t trust me to take care of myself,’ an incensed voice accused at the back of his mind that sounded a lot like Batman’s. ‘I don’t need a glorified babysitter just because I don’t have super strength.’

‘That’s not it,' Superman tried to reason with that voice. ‘I’m going because you’re more valuable than I am.’ The voice sunk into a brooding, disagreeing silence, leaving Kal-El to sigh. He got ignored even in his mind. 

Pushing back self-doubt, Superman focused on the work at hand. The damage to Javelin was visible without the x-ray vision where the fist-size meteor punctured the plating. He dismantled the melted through piece and began removing the rock. The careful manipulation minimised further damage to the delicate circuitry. 

“I believe the circuitry can be fixed with the tools we have,” he told the earpiece cheerfully, which probably annoyed Batman too. His optimism always found a grating critic in a man inclined to face harsh reality. “None of the vital components were smashed irreparably.”

It would have been nice to be asked whether he needed assistance just to hear that hushed voice. Batman didn’t ask, assuming his team mate would inform him should he need anything. Kal-El secured the toolkit and began repairs, working as efficiently as possible. Aside from wanting to demonstrate that he wasn’t completely useless, he also had a bad feeling about the moon. The colourless craters and jagged edges of the low mountain ridges formed ideal places for hiding. The absent plate piece was cracked like a gaping wound, making the ship look vulnerable. Maybe he was spending too much time with Batman. He was growing paranoid. The last thought made him smile. 

Focus on task at hand, not the surroundings. It was Batman’s job to keep the perimeter alert and he trusted no one better to watch their back.

The alarm hit his sensitive eardrum like a sledgehammer when Superman was moulding together the last components. 

“Return at once!” 

He was happy to hear that voice even if it came in mortal danger. A gargantuan mass bloated out half of the sky. For the mission, they were briefed on the dangerous adversaries along the flight path. In the reinforced plating and a heavy ship design that resembled an overturned turtle, Superman recognised a Vertrana carrier. How did the humongous ship manage to sneak up on them? The crew must have used the moon’s geological composition to hide from sensors. The only way to see it was to look out the window. The ship loomed too close.

Kal-El was a lousy liar. He prayed that urgency would conceal the fake note in his voice. “I’m aboard. Take off.” 

Immediately, the Javelin thrusters fired up. Still warming, it lacked the sufficient speed to make a clean break for it with the enemy blocking their way. The carrier’s forward guns rotated. They carried enough power to incinerate the little ship. Superman judged he wasn’t going to reach them in time to prevent the blast. 

The carrier fired. A stream of blue laser light accelerated towards the target. Javelin was going to be blown to bits. Bruce was inside it. 

Superman used the only shield available to prevent the blast from reaching the ship – himself. He didn’t lose consciousness immediately. A horrible pain contorted every cell in his body as he plummeted down. He felt the bone breaking impact against the moon’s rocky surface before the wavering sky filled with stars that resembled the brittle pieces of a shattered glass, collapsed into darkness.


	2. Chapter 2

The ship jolted so hard it nearly threw Batman out of the pilot seat. The console lights dimmed before the backup generators stabilized power, allowing the Javelin to gain altitude. The sensors showed an enormous energy blast missing the ship by a hair. It wasn’t the time to marvel at the stroke of luck. The humongous enemy carrier hung directly above them, leaving fewer cracks to escape through with each passing moment. The Javelin rolled on its axis ninety degrees and dived into a narrow space between the two craters, the curved path letting it emerge behind the barricade. Batman mercilessly pushed the controls to the maximum, immediately pitching the nose up and firing engines to make a nearly vertical take off from the moon’s surface. That carrier didn’t just look like a turtle; it was as slow as one. In open space it didn’t have a ghost of a chance of catching the smaller ship. The captain knew that too because the turtle jaws opened, releasing four smaller fighters from its runway. Batman didn’t want to find out the hard way whether they were faster and dived back to the surface where lay the mountains, putting some distance away from the large ship.

“Take the tactical won’t you,” he snapped at his companion who wasn’t in a hurry to make an appearance at the controls as the pursuers opened fire. Dull, meaningless static met his order. Batman didn’t need to check the sensors to realise he was alone. Damn, senseless, self-sacrificing Boy Scout had stayed on the surface! When the take off message came, a doubt had flashed through his mind. Although Superman could move that fast, the door needed more time to open, but Clark’s inability to lie pressed the button for him. Maybe Superman was too busy to respond? There was satisfaction in imagining him tearing the plating off that carrier. He was spending too much time with Superman to imagine such a ludicrously optimistic scenario. Had the big ship been under attack, the smaller ones would have fallen back to protect it rather than hanging onto the Javelin’s tail like wasps. And putting pressure on him they were. His plan to return to the surface was backfiring because they were chasing him around the moon back to the carrier. Any attempt to escape their net was met with intense fire. 

The Javelin dived towards a natural enclosure, close enough to the surface to make it a neck breaking move. His plan depended on whether the Kryptonian finished the repairs before the alarm hit. If the cloak was still offline, he would suffer either full brunt of the enemy fire or crash into pieces. Then again who needed the damn life if he came back without Superman? How could he look the rest of the Justice League in the eyes and tell them he lost him? Getting captured wasn’t going to help them. 

Batman couldn't have counted how often he left his life in the hands of the fellow hero. He didn’t hesitate to do so again. As the Javelin briefly got blocked from view by the mountains, Batman flipped the switch. Smoothly, his ship melted into the scenery. He dropped speed, allowing the pursuers to zoom several feet away from his wings and then with relish discharged the Javelin guns directly into the rear of the closest ship. The explosion crippled its attack partners who were forced to fly unsafely close within the narrow arc space. The trio uncontrollably spun into the rocks below. 

Fighting one on one wasn’t a part of the pirate rule book. The remaining ship grazed the mountaintops and headed back to the mother-ship's safety. It would have been foolish to continue a fight that promised additional damage, except Batman hadn’t the luxury to let a source of information get away. Had Superman been aboard, they would have activated the cloak without engaging the four vultures in the first place and would have been parsecs away from the cursed moon already. But, Clark was missing. Most likely, he had been captured by the Vertranians and the dark knight wanted to know how to get him back. Batman fired at the escaping ship’s engines before it recovered from the evasive action. 

The vessel groaned under assault. Trailing thick smoke, it haphazardly managed a landing between the jagged spires, leaving a deep trench on the surface. The Javelin touched down beside it. Batman was out in a flash. The gravity allowed him to reach the other ship in a few leaps. One kick was enough to deal with its half-wrecked door. The pilot was worse off than his battered ship. He was coughing from smoke and rubbing a bloodied lump on his forehead with four skinny arms. The ill amused hero zapped him with a shocker, putting an end to the convulsions and dragged the alien out by the scruff of the neck. He didn’t have time to deal with possible escape attempts by an alien that resembled a cockroach when the carrier could have appeared any moment to retrieve its lost crew. 

Dumping the prisoner at the back, Batman lifted the ship off the surface, re-engaging the cloak. He still hoped to locate Superman. Maybe the communicator was broken or the alien technology was blocking their frequency. The sensors kept track of the carrier because the Vertranians were fairly advanced. The large ship potentially had the technology that could detect him through the cloak, so he kept away at the maximum sensor range. 

What if Superman hadn't been captured? That blast tore out a crater at their coordinates. What if Clark was still there? A battered body spread lifelessly among the smouldering rocks. A trail of blood tracing the sculpted outline of the high cheekbone to merge with a sea of red of the fanned out cape. And a singed S engraved across the broad, unmoving chest. Batman forced his dread into a tight fist and compressed it into relentless energy that ran through his veins, urging him to never give up.

A three gruelling hours of a futile search revealed nothing. Their link remained dead. Say something, Clark. The silence he had wished for and finally gotten wrapped around his throat like a guillotine. ‘You’re not always right,’ a voice came to haunt him with a new irony. 

Still nothing but blasted rocks. That left him with two possibilities: captured or killed. Batman threw the last possibility out of his mind until he tore open every hiding place in the entire system and personally made sure Superman wasn’t there. 

The starting point to finding those hiding places was by interrogating the prisoner. A bucket of icy water dumped on his head woke the alien who began to wheeze and sputter pitifully. “What did you zap me for?” he croaked between the coughing fits. “I’m an obedient slave. Would have gone with you willingly and told you whatever you want.” The water was dripping down his huge nose. He tried to wipe it, only to find his arms bound and glanced at his capturer helplessly. 

“You expect me to believe you’d rat out your owner just like that?” 

“What is he, my brother to keep his secrets at the expense of my skin? Besides,” the slave grinned like he caught onto the joke, “that makes him my former owner. You got me now, so why the heck would I want to piss you off? Just don’t hit me and feed me well, and I’ll stick with you like glue. Better yet sell me back to Don Vakrak, though, I must warn you he’s a stingy old pest. You won’t get much out of him.” 

Batman inwardly winced; he was far more tempted to throw the endlessly blabbering creature out the airlock than having him stick to him like glue. From this delirium, Batman pieced together that Don Vakrak was in charge of the carrier that attacked them and he was also a slave trader who most likely captured Superman. It made him sick to his stomach thinking of what may happen to the goody two-shoes farm boy in whose imagination order existed in the universe and all the bad stories had a happy ending, once he was tossed into the galaxy’s biggest whore house. The indignation at Clark’s reckless behaviour turned into cursing himself. What a fool he was. He should have gone out instead of Superman to repair the ship. If anyone should have been captured, it was him. 

No matter how much the Kryptonian experienced, there was certain innocence that always remained a part of Clark. As someone for whom that halo of sunlight had long dimmed and turned into an endless night watch, Batman felt responsible for defending that naivety by engaging the worst and letting Clark enjoy that light, as much as he tried to prepare him with words that one day that optimism might go out. What if this experience really changed him? For once, Batman wished he had the superpower to charge that carrier and tear it to pieces. As he was, he needed options, no matter how preposterous. 

“Maybe I can trade you for someone else,” Batman voiced to interrupt the blabbering stream that never ceased during his musings. The vigilante played along with the sector’s ludicrous laws, pretending he heard about Don Vakrak every day. He wasn’t going to sell anyone, no matter how repulsive they were. A prisoner exchange was a different matter. Apparently, shooting at each other and five minutes later trading goods was considered normal in this part of space. 

“Is your friend ugly?” 

“What?”

He didn’t like an evaluating look the alien scanned him with head to toe. “If he’s as good looking as you are, Don Vakrak will have his goons shoot you in the face for suggesting such a poor deal. I’m butt-ugly, you know. Almost got shot because nobody wanted to buy me for pleasure purposes. Luckily, Don Vakrak is a cheapo and doesn’t waste. I’ve convinced him I’m a brilliant mechanic and pilot. So, here I am after slaving for him for many years.”

“If you are such a brilliant mechanic then you must know something about that carrier’s defences.”

Krukel, that’s how the alien referred to himself in third person, rolled on the floor and began to howl in horror about his terrible fate of being enslaved by a reckless fool who wanted to piss off the most influential guy in the system and listing numerous, agonising ways in which he would die by association, one scenario being gorier than the next one. The carrier was an impenetrable fortress and stealing slaves was the worst violation for which you deserved to be cut into pieces along with your slaves and family. Just for trying, Don Vakrak would hire the bounty hunters to hound the thief along with the miserable planet he came from. Why couldn’t the idiotic guy just buy his friend back like all normal people did at the Vertranian market? He didn’t know anything about the ship’s defences anyway because he was a lowly slave without any access codes.

“Ok, I’ll buy him,” Batman snapped to shut him up. “I just thought Don Vakrak only dealt with specific clients and I want the job done fast since he’s not my contact.”

Krukel instantly raised his purple face from the floor. “Nah, doing only the special orders for the large sums isn’t enough. He even has a special sector set up on the general market where he sells the rest of the lot. Actually, you’re pretty lucky. We were heading back to the planet with the stock when your ship was spotted repairing. That’s almost as good as finding a free pile of cash,” the Krukel began to cackle in delight when a furious stare cooled him. “Eh, well, how were we suppose to know you’d shoot back so well,” he shrugged unrepentantly.

Batman thought about locking him up at the back gagged, then reconsidered in favour of dragging Krukel to the cockpit and tossing the alien into the seat beside him as he set course for the Vertrana. The boisterous creature went on to tell him what a great expert he was on the slave market and how he knew all the dealers and all their habits. There was a lot of useless information to sort through, but Bruce was willing to put up with it to learn about the place he intended to infiltrate. His disguise as a regular visitor needed to be perfect. Superman’s life depended on it.


	3. Chapter 3

The last time he felt so well was when Metallo pounded his skull into the gravel with a kilo of kryptonite melting his bones. The consciousness was distant, lethargically alarming him to the invasive presence of whisky paws running down every inch of his body. Lewdly, they revelled in violating every bit of privacy. He made an effort to shake them off. It was akin to dissuading a pack of lecherous flies that returned until they finished their job. The universal translator built into his ear hummed, analysing the incoming information.

He needed to remember something important. The consciousness fragments drifted in and out of focus. Coherent thought eluded him - the blinking console, a moon. That's right he was on the moon. And then pain, lots of pain. Why did he agree to suffer the blow? Batman! What happened to him? The last consideration prompted Superman to wake up.

The eyelids were led heavy when he cracked them open. The flat ceiling above radiated depressing grey light. Even with the super hearing, no sounds of the outer world penetrated the walls.

"I'm glad you're awake."

Superman shied away from a tap on his shoulder, having endured enough of the unwelcome prodding, and scooted back to regard an alien who studied him through the violet, luminous eyes. 

"When they brought you in, I thought you may die. You took a bad beating."

"Where am I?" 

"In the Vertrana slave holding cell," the alien gestured to the dull surroundings. His voice was sad. "I was captured too. I'm a cultural anthropologist who came to this sector to study these species. I wasn't expecting to become a participant in their practices. Everyone in this room will be sold to the highest bidder."

"Has anyone been sold while I was unconscious?" The slavery predicament was secondary to his concern for Batman's fate. "Or rather, was I the only one of my species imprisoned? You said you saw when they brought me in."

The room spun. The tension gripped him until the alien responded in the negative. Clark released the breath he didn't know he was holding. The Javelin must have gotten away. He felt just a little bit better in the bleak surroundings.

For the most part, the holding cell inspired apathy. Listless slaves were the easiest to control. There were about a dozen prisoners scattered around the room. Most pressed into corners or leaned against the walls mistrustfully studying their inmates. Apparently, the slavery fate didn’t bother everyone. Some were engrossed in beautifying themselves within the limited means to go to a richer owner and shooting bountifully jealous glares at the possible competition. Superman intercepted a few of those poisonous darts on his skin. The attention prompted self-consciousness. A part of him raised in the conservative Smallville was mortified to discover that he was naked with the exception of a semi-transparent cloth covering his hips that made the showgirls look like an epitome of modesty. Blushing, Clark adjusted his limbs to sit in a less revealing position. Not that anyone cared. If anyone had an article of clothing, it was aimed to tease rather than cover anything.

The chains binding his wrists and ankles clattered and sunk into his skin viciously. Experimentally, Clark gave them a tug. The chain links strained, but held firm. The attempt shot pain up his arm. His body was covered in a shimmering mixture used to conceal burns and bruises that were taking their time to heal. Either the carrier guns had a doze of kryptonite in them or the planet had a red sun sapping his strength. 

“Don’t bother,” the anthropologist looked resigned. “There hadn’t been a successful escape in seventy three years.” 

“What about from the owners?”

“They’re set on breaking you before you are sold.” 

That didn’t sound like a procedure he wanted to be a part of. One of the walls formed an opening through which two guards came in before Clark asked for a clarification. The pair wore around their waists what looked like oxygen masks. To their backs were strapped pain-sticks. Not that the guards needed additional weapons for intimidation. Their size and horns were enough. One of those bulls consulted a pad and jammed his finger at Superman.

“You sure?” asked the other. “Won’t this drop the following ones’ value?”

“Not if the customers leave. The last three scrawny runts caused little more than yawns.” 

“Fine.”

The baleful gaze landed on the prisoner. “You’re not on your feet yet?” the guard barked. To emphasize that he didn’t appreciate the slave’s lack of taking hints, he grabbed Superman by the hair and yanked him up. 

Conscious of being Clark Kent, the prisoner stumbled inelegantly over the chains and landed in a graceless heap. 

“Clumsy idiot,” the bull snorted. He wanted to kick the prisoner, but since he was instructed to avoid damaging the merchandise, he settled for pressing a button on a remote control sheathed on his hip that unlocked the bracelets around the ankles. Try to run and I’ll break your legs, his countenance said. Clark got up and followed subdued like he wasn’t dreaming of the possibility. 

The faceless corridor led to another door through which he was pushed onto an elevated platform where reigned an auctioneer who ushered the slave to be placed at the center. The auctioneer passed no taller than the knee, while his screeching voice held enough decibels to crack reinforced glass. He also had a vivid imagination while outlining the slave’s unquestionable superlative qualities where the stamina of a horny Tarkashian hog ranked the most decent. 

Superman blocked him, out of concern he’d remember some of those expressions in an embarrassing dream. His appearance produced a lively reaction. The stares from the crowd assembled in front of the platform aimed to critically assess every inch of him. He wasn’t sure where the alien tastes led, but there were plenty of humanoids in the audience who hooted and whistled in what seemed to be approval.

This crowd had a hypnotising quality. Its will urged him to submit to the paralyzing dread that allowed them to have their way. The suggestive shouts left little to imagination what exactly they wished to do with him. Frozen in place, Clark tore his gaze away from their web to study the positions of the guards scattered around the perimeter and rested on the maze of shops behind the crowd’s back where one could lose the pursuers. 

“Hey lazy bones, who is getting sold here, you or I?” the auctioneer’s voice dragged Clark from charting the escape route. While his seller was pleased with the customers’ reaction, he wasn’t impressed by the slave’s behaviour. “Give us all a favour, handsome, and turn around so we can admire your rear.” 

Superman titled his head just slightly to regard the alien with an unreadable expression. He moved none at all.

“Hello!” The auctioneer jumped to be more visible, comically dangling his feet in the air. “Flex your muscles and strut like your mom told you to!” 

Several more demands were met with an equal lack of reaction. A bunch of sly snickers surged from the crowd, mocking the dumb seller who couldn’t control the slaves. 

“Teach him some manners,” the auctioneer motioned one of the guards into action who went across the stage almost lazily like he was giving the slave a big favour by giving him time to reconsider his stupid behaviour. It was the same one who grabbed his hair. 

Superman remembered exactly where the remote control was and the row of buttons, judging the middle one of the same colour would release the handcuffs. The prisoner made half a step sideway when a huge arm reached for him, forcing the guard to expose his side and jammed his elbow into the device. The handcuffs clicked and clattered noisily onto the floor. His knuckles exploded in pain from the force of ramming his fist into the brick-like jaw. The impact threw the guard back where he stumbled over the auctioneer who squealed like a piglet at a huge mass collapsing atop of him. 

Superman jumped directly into the unguarded crowd where his pursuers were bound to get entangled. Vertrana customers came to have a good time, not pick a fight. They parted willingly before the escaping slave. Some even shouted encouragements to run faster. 

The pursuers hopelessly fell behind as the crowd thinned and the maze of the narrow passages and shops floated ahead like a lifeline. The additional men were pulled from the perimeter to intercept him. Instinctively, Superman dodged the pain-sticks aimed at his head and kneecaps. A wall of muscles dived out of a nook directly in his way, forcing him to ram his shoulder into the obstacle. Toppling backwards, the aggressor made a grab in the blind and got a fistful of cloth. The slim material ripped, sliding off his hips. In the fight Clark grew disoriented. Where had he estimated lay the exit?

Someone as large as a dump truck and equally smelly heaved atop of him, dragging him to the ground. An earlier noticed mask got pinned to his face and a murky, green smoke poured out of it, invading his senses. Clark held his breath. He struck the attacker with his knee and the guard grunted in pain. The weight briefly lifted only to be replaced by the shock of a pain-stick jamming into his abdomen. Its agonising impact forced Clark to inhale a large quantity of the sickening sweet gas. The repulsive concoction made his stomach roll and his attackers distorted into monstrous masses that aimed to suffocate him by entangling the victim with their tentacles. The remaining strength went into rolling out of their way in search of an impossible escape. They caught him. 

The consciousness was fading once more, putting an end to a beautiful dream that had lain hidden for many years at the core of his heart, concealed from the subject of his affection. There was only one man in the world he wanted to be with, to feel the pleasure of his touch and experience what no other could give him. He hadn’t been able to feel the same for another, nor allow anyone else to come that close. The realisation of what he saved himself for was a bitter one as his will to escape was extinguished with the last bit of strength. The crystal dream shattered, forever lost. 

******************************************************************************************************************************************

The Vertrana market was exactly as he imagined: smelly, messy and regulated by a set of laws aimed to expand their practices. Everyone was welcome to enter freely. The only place where the documents were required was at the exit to confirm the slave purchases. Covered by a defensive grid that prevented escape attempts from the orbit, the dome covered nearly a city size area. Bruce left the Javelin on the reserved spot where the ship was the least likely to be stolen, gambling he rightful placeholder would have a day off tending to his harem elsewhere. Getting stuck in the dangerous dump without a ship wasn’t remotely appealing. 

The visitors were diverse enough for the Batman costume to look perfectly ordinary. The only part of the attire he exchanged was the cloak. A gaudy orange garment with the outrageous shoulder pads trailed along the ground behind him. Only extremely important individuals to be treated very, very specially were entitled to those capes, Krukel informed him. The more prudish League members, when it came down to the hero bound morals, would not have approved of the means he used to obtain the ugly rag that warded him from the unnecessary inquiries. 

Experimentally, Batman inhaled the clear air from the respirator. The twisted maze of the slave auctioning areas, the alcohol and drug sellers, as well as the sex toys merchandise shops was covered in a thick haze. The fountain-like structures permeating the area emanated a multitude of scents that had an alcohol effect on the passers-by. One of those fountains had a carpeted area where a group demonstratively staged their pleasure practices. 

“Purchase me, handsome, and I’ll turn your day into paradise,” a moth-woman with a hairy black belly blew him a kiss from where she danced on a pole.

“You’ll need to fatten your soggy tits to make my day,” he sneered offhandedly, which resulted in a roar of laugher from the crowd that moments ago was caught in her lecherous web. 

The woman cursed up a storm on which the universal translator choked. According to her he was an un-hatched son of the bzrughsyxsjxjxhah with a defective drixtjzjsx. The owner cursed him too because his joke instantly dropped her value. 

Getting through this labyrinth was going to take too long.

“You there!” he barked at the nearest man who wore the transporters service uniform. “Take me to Don Vakrak’s auction immediately.”

The dazzling cloak and the arrogant manner like he owned the place got him an excellent response from the locals who tripped over themselves to fulfill his orders. The auction barely started when Batman reached the central area. The sold listings didn’t match Clark. 

“Don Vakrak must have had a shitty run,” one of the aliens observed. “I expected far more excitement.” 

“Nah, the old skunk is just trying to peddle the sorriest lot first.”

To confirm great displeasure, a rain of cans and bottles flew at the stage accompanied by threatening noise. 

“Quit holding out on us!” 

The auctioneer hid behind the guards’ backs and exchanged some words with them before calling the honourable guests to demonstrate patience and swearing to fix everything. The trio whispered animatedly and then the lights were adjusted. These machinations stilled the anger outpour as the crowd was tossed into speculation. 

Batman left his place at the back where he was observing the bidding practices and pushed to the front through the sea of aliens who were anticipating something grand. The crowd mood was rapidly tossed from one end of the spectrum to another. The arms of war were dropped. A hurricane of whistles and lewd suggestions exploded around him as another slave was ushered onto the stage. Intuitively, Bruce had known before this person appeared. It was Superman.


	4. Chapter 4

Something was wrong with Superman. That much was obvious from the distance. In the slouched posture, Batman foremost recognised the identity of the Daily Prophet's quirky reporter. The hero always held his back perfectly straight even when he was wounded. Taught by Jonathan Kent that one must face the others openly in order to instil trust and confidence in them, Superman ever held his board shoulders unfolded. Something in the toxic environment must have been draining his power. Otherwise, the hero would have easily snapped the heavy chains that bound his wrists tight.

Batman clenched his fists involuntarily at the push the prisoner received to usher him into the center. The punch left an angry red mark under the shoulder blade. Clark stumbled, but didn’t respond to pain. One feature he borrowed from Superman was the unreadable expression reserved for the super villains when he was tortured.

Batman had the ability to see the milliard of moods and expressions that lay past that mask and at present Clark was harassed to the snapping point. Hassled by the crowd, he smoothed the cloth draped around his hips, unconsciously seeking a shield from the lascivious whistles. At the futility of it, the prisoner crossed his arms over his chest to form at least one barrier. 

It was no use to escape the leering. As much as the various worlds adhered to a different beauty standards, typically those considered attractive on their home worlds were acknowledged by others too. Even when Clark tried to be inconspicuous on Earth, those ridiculous baggy clothes and thick rimmed glasses didn’t entirely disguise his natural stature and handsome features. 

Stripped down to his skin, the slouch wasn’t remotely enough to hide the perfect figure, while the sensual tilt of the head and the inward withdrawal fuelled imagination. The shimmering oil advantageously outlined the muscles rippling underneath the flawless skin. The intensity of the blue eyes occasionally rising to meet the crowd, burned like a thousand suns. In the dim, scattered light, Superman glowed like an unearthly creature, dragged down by fiends into a jackal pit for mockery. 

The animalistic desire to tear down and subjugate a powerful being at the moment of weakness raised dark emotions in Bruce that were normally kept under lock. That’s when he was close to murdering those who took his parents away from him, those who defiled everything he revered. He fervently wished for all those present to roast in Hell.

The drunken appreciation of the sight was summed up by an alien muttering next to Batman with a loud hiccup. "Well, pinch my butt! This is so beautiful, it ain't real!" 

Batman nearly raised his hand to get the prisoner’s attention when his gaze swept through the assembly, if only to instil hope in Clark that he wasn’t alone. Didn’t his ever present optimism tell the hero that he wasn’t going to be abandoned? The unfocused gaze swept past one man lost in a huge crowd that swam before his eyes like a massive blur. It shifted to the guards, gaining awareness. 

Damn it, Clark. Don’t do anything stupid! Just let me get you without making trouble. Even now the man got under his skin by considering the course of action that usually ended with him getting hit by some form of a steaming locomotive. You aren’t as indestructible as you think. The frightening part was that Superman knew it too and proceeded regardless. It wasn’t due to the arrogance that he tested the odds. The Boy Scout didn’t want anyone to risk their lives by coming to his rescue. Batman rejected those foolish heroic bouts. He was going to save the man whether he wanted it or not.

The crowd jolted the rescuer two feet back as Superman jumped. Great plan without even knowing where to run! The prisoner picked the right direction intuitively or possibly after making the small observations such as the traffic flow. It was tempting to focus on the man’s raw power and underestimate his intelligence. Bruce never forgot the Kal-El’s father was a genius and a lead scientist on Krypton. It was unlikely his son was worth any less, having fixed the complex technology such as the cloaking device with the Javelin’s barely adequate tools. Nonetheless, Clark was still a self-sacrificing idiot. 

It took every bit of Batman’s willpower to remain neutral. The intuition called to succumb to madness. A few smoke grenades and a couple of explosive batarangs would have thrown the addle-brained city into chaos where in general mayhem the pair of them could have gotten away. 

Krukel’s sage, ‘this vengeful old jerk will send a fleet of mercenaries to incinerate your planet,’ condemned him to watch as the net tightened around the man whose life Batman valued above his own. The dark knight refused to flinch, refused to look away as the punishment for standing by and doing nothing. Every punch and kick felt like it hit him instead. After what passed for eternity, the slave was drugged and dumped back onto the platform. 

Bruce checked the respirator settings, feeling like the air supply was cut off, but the device hadn’t been tempered with. 

“Well, wasn’t that magnificent!” the auctioneer was never at a loss how to turn a scandal to his advantage. “Such speed and strength! Would you look at how far he ran!” 

“He sure did,” someone yelled. “Won me five hundred sicles. Speaking of which, hand them over!”

With the winners gloating and the losers cursing, the rapid currency exchanges were made, resulting from the bets. 

The auctioneer shouted the starting bidding price, encouraged by the upbeat disposition. The back ranks mostly occupied by poorer clients groaned in disappointment. The instantly raised stakes made it clear that contention would unfold between the orange cloaks. A few glowers and smacks, ensured Batman a spot at the front row. He did not interfere, allowing the momentum to exhaust itself. The aliens busily tapped at their notepads, redirecting the resources as the price climbed enough to buy five perfectly good slaves. 

“You know, he is badly behaved,” one of the main bidders protested in response to a particularly high price jump. His huge stomach stretching his black shirt, wobbled like pudding. “He tried to escape right in front of everyone. Imagine what he’ll do once he’s bought.”

“Getting too feeble to control your slaves, are you old gizzard?” someone shouted. “That’s why you like them pliant.” 

The alien cursed the offender as the crowd exploded with mirth at his expense. Batman wouldn’t have minded had more concerns been raised about the disagreeable slave. This wasn’t Earth where billionaire Bruce Wayne could have bought anything. To bargain, Batman was using the precious stones given to them by the grateful inhabitants of Renus Five for preventing a civil war. The heroes firmly refused to be paid for help, but the leaders would have been greatly offended had their gifts been declined. Surely, the aliens would have appreciated the idea of using their gift to save their hero. As it stood, his finances weren’t endless, though nothing gave away that consideration as Batman waited for his turn to name the price.

“I like it when they resist,” claimed another alien, towering a head above the bidding competition. He resembled a wolf in an elongated face and a predatory manner. His amber eyes maintained their sharpness in the smoked environment. His vote had influence because his bid was supported and the disgruntled advocate of the obedience dropped out. The bids finally stopped at an unheard of number. 

He should have known Clark wouldn’t be ordinary even in a wacky alien crowd. 

“So, if there is no further bid…” the auctioneer cleared his throat, not quiet prepared yet to part with the thought of getting even more out of the deal. 

“There is,” Batman’s voice cut above the noise. “I double the last number.”

The auctioneer nearly fell off the platform at the noise the announcement raised. Everyone was staring at the guy no one had paid attention to earlier. There was an unkind blaze in the wolfish alien’s eyes. Batman met the fierce glare levelly. Every muscle tensed before the jump as he advanced towards the opponent.

“Your bid plus…” the alien snarled.

Batman leapt towards him and struck the opponent with his foot across the chest. With shrieks, the audience parted to give fighters the room. It was a normal procedure as long as no firearms were used. More bets were noisily placed on the combatants with a general consensus that the Prince of Wier Prime was going to beat the shit out of the arrogant newcomer.

The odds of that happening weren’t that miserly. The kick fazed Wier, yet he hadn’t lost the footing. The recovery came smoothly with a wild abandon crossing his sharp features heated by the encouraging shouts. It was Batman’s turn to dodge the violet strikes as the opponent rebound and went on the offensive. Every instinct told him the audience was hostile to the unknown person. Pushed back far enough, the hero blocked one of the punches and at close quarters struck back. And missed in spite of how close they were.

Having exchanged the first pleasantries, the pair circled each other warily, aside from the kick having nothing else to boast. 

“Hey pal, at least tell us what planet you’re from, so we’d know where to send your body in a box.” 

Batman ignored the idiotic jab. Wanting to return the favour for the kick, Wier broke the standoff first. His razor sharp claws sliced through the hero’s armour. The shallow wound stung and a thin trail of blood dripped down his arm. There was going to be no mercy for losing. At the scent of blood, Wier bared his teeth and his tongue lapped his lips. Sadist. Batman imagined vividly the alien was a regular customer at the whip shops that were designed to tear out the chunks of flesh. He surely took pleasure in mutilating his slaves and came for a fresh stock, preferably the ones that resisted – like Clark. A grim determination overcame him to ensure the alien wouldn't think about pleasure for a long time.

Wier hadn’t come out of their exchange unharmed either. The kick he got into the vital organs prompted him to resolve to greater force and in confirmation of the hero’s thought he grabbed a barbed whip from his back. The weapon hissed through the air, narrowly missing the opponent, only to be whisked back expertly and coil twice around the man’s throat, bringing him down on one knee. The barbs drew blood and the room dimmed with the pressure increasing. Wier was grinning ear to ear. 

A batarang flew directly into that smirking face and was caught as the other had excellent reflexes. The device exploded into a cloud of smoke before the mocking inquiry came what the silly toy meant to accomplish. The whip cord snapped in the choking fog, leaving Wier with just the handle. 

His opponent vanished into the white nothingness. Wier crouched in the best traditions of the hunts in the thick forests on his home world. Every muscle in his body tensed in preparation of the leap at the slightest provocation. The fog shifted just the smallest fraction in the corner of his eye and he swung at the wavering shape. His claws sliced through something soft and elusive. A trap! It was just a cloak. With his back Wier sensed danger, but he wasn’t fast enough to recover. An excruciating blow to the back of his head singed his hair and the electric charge set off an explosion in his brain.

The outsiders saw a blue lightening discharge in the midst of smoke. The gawkers jumped aside as their champion was tossed past them with his tongue lolling out and a trail of drool across his chin. Wier landed into the trash compartment and the lid banged shut.

The onlookers parted respectfully as Batman emerged from the smoke. 

“Does anyone else wish to make a bid?” he asked - low, menacing. 

The declaration was met by exulting cheers. The gossip mongrels who buried him earlier, hid under a rock or ran off to find themselves a box.

“Honoured guests!” the auctioneer shrieked over the noise no less exited at the prospect of the humongous sale. “The decisive bid goes to….uh?”

“M&M Moon Dictator,” Batman informed him perfectly seriously.

Whoooo!! 

Like any pleaser, sensing that this customer valued efficiency, the auctioneer collected the deposit and put the seal on the slave documents without delay. “Are there any favours you would like?”

“Yes.” Batman added five percent to the sum. “I’m taking him with me immediately without breaking.”

The auctioneer’s face twisted with fear. Between the two powers he still feared Don Vakrak more than this stranger. Taking a deep breath he risked to contradict.

“I’m so terribly sorry. We will do any favour that does not break the law.”

There was finality to his tone that twisted Bruce’s stomach into knots. He wasn’t sure he could follow through it.


	5. Chapter 5

“I expect some understanding too. Our species like their privacy,” Batman tried nonetheless, leaning conversationally towards the auctioneer who continued shaking his head stubbornly.

“I’m so very sorry. The slaves must be broken in front of at least three witnesses before they are passed on and everyone’s signatures collected that the customer found the experience pleasurable. Should the customer be dissatisfied, he won’t need to pay in full, but the house keeps the thirty percent deposit along with the rejected slave. Don Vakrak once very generously bent the rules and he got a very foul complaint that the paid party was very unhappy with what they got and wanted compensation. Don Vakrak was forced to decline and the client was forced to declare war, a very nasty business indeed.”

“I won’t hold it against you that you sound like you doubt my honourable intentions of keeping him after the purchase,” Batman was leaning dangerously close and lowered his voice to keep it between them. “The additional twenty five percent favour may convince you of my integrity. I am someone who likes to get their way.” 

The subtle mix of temptation and the underlying threat filled the auctioneer with dread. He apologized profoundly again, but explained to the honoured guest that he wasn’t on his home world. In between the grovelling, Batman spotted a suspicious guard activity, preparing to deal with a possibly disagreeable customer. 

“Fine!” the vigilante snapped like he was honouring them tremendously. “I’ll follow your silly rule, but as a favour you stay out of my face along with your ugly goons. When I break him, I want to be seeing something more pleasant than you. I’ll hold you personally responsible should I be interrupted by anyone.”

The auctioneer sagged in relief and bowed so low his face nearly scraped the platform. The threats from the higher-ups were regular, so he wasn’t offended. 

Bruce was finally allowed to approach Superman. The auctioneer offered the customer a box containing a selection of lubricants and a smaller one filled with greyish powder. Batman accepted the smaller box, figuring it contained a strong aphrodisiac and picked a random bottle before gesturing for the alien to vamoose. Batman hid the substance in one of the belt compartments, intending to examine its chemical composition later. He wasn’t going to get poisoned by some alien drug that robbed victims of reason. 

A powerful, laden with spices scent invaded his senses when Batman removed the respirator to swallow a pill he prepared for the contingency aboard the Javelin. The Earth’s superhero was undeniably attractive, but there wasn’t anything remotely arousing in raping a drugged into unconsciousness man in front of the raving crowd of the intoxicated aliens. 

Although he wasn't invulnerable, in his mind Superman represented a bastion of power and virtue. That's why Batman was never afraid of pitting his strength to the fullest potential against the man, often being harsher on him than on anyone else. Superman wasn't supposed to be breakable. Seeing him dumped on the filthy floor was like kicking down one of the central pillars upholding the universe. 

Batman knelt, tempted to call out Clark's name. The hero's dark hair was unnaturally disarrayed, begging to be smoothed back like fixing it was the key to putting the world back the way it had been. The pale neck was exposed and the lips parted, one beset by the tiniest crack and a droplet of blood, red like his insignia. 

Instincts urged Batman to keep the armour against the hostile surroundings, but he removed the gloves, letting them drop onto the stained floor like they were his morals. It might have been an imitation of a caress played for the onlookers, but the desire, sealed away for its frightening intensity, to comfort the abused soul was no counterfeit. 

The vigilante leaned closer to the prone body and ran his hand up the broad chest towards the neck where he stilled to check the pulse. It was fast and irregular like Superman was fighting an ugly nightmare. The dark eyelashes trembled with the unknown images vividly playing out in his hallucinating state. The hero was battling monsters, while someone he held in high regard was about to betray him. How fitting it was that he thought of monsters. 

The monster placed a delicate kiss on the strong jaw and trailed his lips up to the Clark's ear. The prettily shimmering oil had a repulsive taste Batman wished to spit out. He swallowed it instead and whispered two words only Superman could distinguish. 

"Forgive me."

Bruce was careful to shift Clark onto his stomach and tuned his head sideway against the arm. Was the man completely unconscious or did he have a distant sense of the invasive touch? For once, the long cloak became useful, falling around them in fluent folds to shield the pair from the gawking onlookers. They yowled in protest when Batman shifted his partner away to face the wall, leaving mostly his back to everyone else, and the cloak fell like a curtain around them. A strict shout from the auctioneer that those who didn't like it were going to get thrown out of the premises and could visit a monastery from there, silenced the complaints. When somebody paid that much, he was entitled to nearly any whim. 

Batman ran his hands down the tense back in an effort to sooth the strain from Clark's body. If he was forced to do it, at least he would make sure the physical discomfort was minimised. Clark's skin was cool to the touch. He rubbed it to bring back the warmth and relax the strained muscles, gradually sliding his hands down the small of the back and the shapely rear. Bruce allowed his natural instincts to take over in preparing Clark for the intrusion, letting his mind drift to a different place. 

Light years away, this dream came after they met in Metropolis. The veil of time had not obscured each detail, each scent and touch. To him it was real.

They were alone in a vast, green field with a massive oak branches throwing laced shade over their intertwined bodies. The clothes were discarded in a forgotten heap in the wake of the feverish need for more contact. Every cell in his body hummed in delight pressed against the stunning partner. The tingle of skin, fresh as the rose petals on his lips, was surprisingly soft for a being able to withstand an explosion. It was overwhelmingly sensitive too, spilling into low sounds Clark made in the back of his throat that were melting his lover's blood into liquid fire. The passionate sighs and gasps prompted by exploration mixed with the wind rustling the leaves above them. It bended the knee-tall grass, rolling the lush waves that seemed to carry their emotions to an all-encompassing horizon. 

One of the leaves tugged off by the play spiralled onto Bruce's shoulder. Clark flicked it away tenderly and pressed a kiss on the spot where in landed. 

"I wish I could be the wind," he said dreamily, "then I could accompany you everywhere."

"You already do," Bruce told him, as ever leaving the duality and mystery whether it was a scolding or a confession of the most powerful feelings. It didn't matter whether he was diving into a raging volcano or jumping between the rooftops of the Gotham skyscrapers with the abyss stretching between each leap, his thoughts inevitably travelled to one person - Superman.

Bruce ran his hands down his partner's back and his fingers dipped into the cleft. Clark gasped and bucked against him. In the widely open blue eyes he read the permission to delve deeper. Bruce caressed and teased, gradually stretching the opening. Clark's moist lips sucking his throat, the fingers vigorously digging into his back and hips thrust against his body filling him with wanton ache, were welcoming. The energy build up was carrying them towards a single action.

"Please," Clark breathed into his ear after nibbling the tip. "I always wanted you..."

The last bit was cut off by a sharp intake of breath as Bruce crooked his finger, brushing that special spot that brought so much of the still unexplored pleasure to Clark. A leg wrapped around his waist, urged him to slide into the tight passage that fitted him like a glove. He revelled in the surrounding heat, waiting for them to adjust and then thrust. An overwhelming emotion tightened his chest with wonder why a being with such a beautiful soul chose someone bitter and tainted like him. Whichever magic bound them together, he wanted to make the experience special no matter what the future held for them.

Clark was so responsive to love. His body moved in perfect sync, matching with equal passion his every move. So gracefully, he leaned into the touches and caresses. His eyes, as boundless as the azure sky above, begged this merging of hearts and bodies to never end. Bruce allowed himself to let go, to be where the webs of his critical mind stepped back, unwinding the emotions to blaze like a wildfire. In abandon all pieces fitted together like he was meant to be nowhere else. The ground did not fall away as he had been afraid when he relinquished control. It pulsed with the powerful energies that resonated within the pair locked in embrace and brought them to completion.

The release rocked them. Burning white seed flooded his partner, leaving a part of himself, and the fertile earth accepted the gift. Blood hammered in his temples, his body shuddered in ecstasy. Bruce collapsed and buried his face in his partner's chest. Three words he could never say to the real Clark Kent were torn from his very core.

"I love you."

Batman was breathing rapidly, feeling the damp back under his arm where his forehead rested. The reality where his lips had remained sealed came crushing down hard when he was forced to rise and face the sea of the stupidly grinning faces. The auctioneer was back to busily scan the slave with a medical device that confirmed the breaking and the witnesses signed the proof of satisfaction. With a cringe-worthy, all-knowing look the auctioneer inquired how was the experience.

"Unforgettable," Batman sneered at him, wishing to strangle the annoying being that must have sensed danger because he arranged very quickly for the slave to be delivered to the very important Dictator's ship and wished him a very pleasant day. At the exit, the guards twitched to ask for the documents, but a pointed stare from the escort stopped them from bothering the VIP. The vigilante told them to leave Clark near a different ship not far from the Javelin. 

Once their escort disappeared, Batman knelt, allowing the cloak once more to shield Superman from the curious onlookers. In its folds they were alone, enveloped by intimacy in the world drowned out by a thin veil as the dark knight carefully shifted Clark against his shoulder. Batman lifted the unconscious man into his arms and carried him to their ship, wishing to never see another Vertranian representative in the next two hundred years.

The first thing he bumped into aboard was Krukel. The alien was waiting very patiently, humming an annoying sound that was probably meditative. His eyes snapped open at the noise and Krukel released a low woof. "Holy moly!" he began prattling on at once. "This guy is hot! No wonder you wanted him back. You must have paid a fortune!"

Growling, Batman deposited Clark onto the bed in his quarters. The hero's skin had an unnatural chill to it, prompting Bruce to grab the warmest blanket and tuck it around the injured man before storming out to the hall where the raving prisoner was listing rather imaginative ideas as to what he could do with his new slave. Having no patience to untie the pest, Batman slashed the rope with a knife. Grabbing Krukel by the scruff of the neck, the enraged vigilante tossed the alien out of the ship.

"Get lost!" he yelled. "I don't care whose slave you'll grovel to become next or whether you'll get a mechanic job somewhere! I don't want you!"

The Javelin door slid shut with an irate air hiss and the ship took off the surface without him. Well crap. Krukel got up and dusted his butt off. Of course a guy who could afford slaves like that didn't want him. But, what was he going to do? With a master he always had a roof and a loaf of bread. Krukel began walking towards the slave dome. Maybe if he begged enough and kissed Don Vakrak's shoe, the slave trader would take him back? Of course, he hated kissing shoes that were slimy to boot and those loaves were always stale.

Krukel stopped, regarding the vast expanse of the landing field lost in turbulent thoughts the scope of which were perhaps too grand for his imagination and then ran in the direction opposite of the slave dome, laughing like a maniac.


	6. Chapter 6

Unsettling. There was no other way to describe the face, in daily life often animated by warmth and compassion, morphed into frozen stillness with an unnatural frown. Contributing to the sickly state, Clark's skin glowed pale blue in the lamplight, adding eeriness to the body entangled by cords that stretched from the ceiling as if the soulless machine was interconnected with his life force. The images like this always made Batman withdraw, shut away the violent feelings before they ruined him. Bruce pushed himself into a state where he turned into molten lava encased in ice.

The Javelin may have been upgraded with the latest alien technology, but it was inadequate in comparison to the medical labs at the Batcave and the Watchtower. The entanglement of tubes and sensors around Superman’s body sent rudimentary information about his state of health such as breaks and burns, but it was a chore to determine from it the reason for his, hopefully temporary, loss of power. The scans indicated several bones healed less than a couple of hours ago. So, the power hadn’t entirely gone away. With the limited data, Batman surmised the distorted energy patterns were the result of Superman getting hit by the carrier’s weapons that must have harmed him and his body shut down to repair the damage. The super strength must have been channelled into regenerating the broken bones out of self-preservation.

Suspended in the unconscious state - Batman never got used to the sight. Whenever Superman was injured during their missions, Bruce never set foot in the medical bay unless his expertise were strictly required. Otherwise, he allowed J'onn to take care of the wounded. The Martian learned a great deal about the other species' physiology to frequently serve as their doctor. As for the recovery part, any other League member was better qualified to deal with the patients. Batman wasn't good at comforting, although, he had more than sufficient knowledge to perform complex surgeries, especially non-standard cases that required development and ingenuity, for as long as the patients were unconscious and did not require his conversational skills. 

Superman was an exception. There had always been an overpowering onslaught of emotions, distracting him from the healing procedures that required his outmost concentration and precision. The events leading to the injuries kept replaying relentlessly in his mind, every step, every detail. They tossed him into speculation where the mistakes were made and what hadn't he done to prevent them.

Batman checked the instruments for the hundredth time and adjusted the respirator. Since needles didn't go into Superman's skin that easily, he devised an antidote to counter the foul gas effects and mixed it with the air to inject it into his system through breathing.

The white sheet covering Superman up to his waist lay slightly askew. On impulse, Bruce adjusted it, careful to avoid touching the other. He didn't have the right to touch Clark ever again. For all his education in the finest world Capitals, he kept turning over the words in his mind how to explain what happened to Superman once he regained consciousness, and came up blank. The words blurred at the edges, fell apart, refused to form under the weight of shame. It would be best to leave the Watchtower under the guise of some urgent mission once they got home to avoid the awkward, accidental meetings in the hallways. Those encounters were bound to be extremely uncomfortable for Superman who wouldn't have wanted a constant reminder walking around him daily. Batman wasn't going to do that to him. 

There was nothing else he could do other than let Superman rest and have his natural healing take over. Batman was reluctant to leave. This was Clark. He was going to find an adventure sleeping. There were bound to be some dream controlling parasites lurking in space he could pick a fight with. 

Bruce checked the sensors again. The parasites were deep in hiding. The Javelin wasn't going to fly itself. At least one person had to be at the controls. Re-directing the medical information inflow to the cockpit and activating a camera to constantly project Clark's quarters onto a side monitor, Batman retreated to the pilot seat. There, in the faint tapping of the console keys and the low hum of the engines, he kept silent vigil over the ship and two people crossing the boundless space, weighted down by truths unspoken.

*******************************************************************************************************************************************

Superman was drowning in the murky waters infested by monsters. They grabbed on, pulled, suffocated, cutting off every attempt to escape to the surface that grew dimmer and more distant with every breath he could not draw. His senses became taught as a string, focusing on his heartbeat growing fainter. Would it be his end when he heard it no more? The monsters agreed gleefully, taking great delight in his demise. They were leering and waiting for the inevitable. Superman tried again to shake off their hold. His heart missed a beat. Then another. And then a pair of strong arms wrapped around his waist, pressing him closely to someone's broad chest. It wasn't a comforting embrace of Martha Kent who with a gentle smile assured her five year old son that monsters under the bed were not to be feared, maybe they wanted to be friends too. This hold was possessive, demanding and it scared the shit out of the monsters that retreated into the nothingness with disparaged howls. Clark felt his rescuer's steady heartbeat as the water thinned around them and a faint bluish light filled the world. The figure holding him melted with it before Clark was able to turn around and see who it was. 

Something was still entangling him. Clark swatted at the bonds that fell away lightly when he jumped on the bed and opened his eyes. The dislodged medical sensors beeped in protest at such abuse. One of them still attached to his chest showed rapid heartbeat as Clark tried to make sense of the surroundings. Every muscle ached dully. His head swam and there was a foul taste in his mouth resembling liquid glue. These were his quarters aboard the Javelin. His memories were cut off at the failed escape from the slave traders. Batman must have rescued and brought him here. Knowing that instantly calmed Clark, having explicit trust that Batman wouldn't allow anything bad to befall his team mates, even the ones he wasn't fond of. 

Clark almost expected to find a brooding figure watching him from the doorway with his arms folded across his chest. The room was empty aside from him. There was a shameful pang of disappointment because the presence would have allowed him to pretend that Bruce worried about him, if only a little bit. This thought was dubbed selfish. Somebody had to fly the ship. Batman had more important things to do than staying near the foolish team mate while he lay unconscious. 

The vigilante was the one able to fill in his memory gaps. Clark swung his feet off the edge of the bed and tested his footing. When the floor didn't tilt, he looked around for his clothes. His stomach churched at the realisation that Batman must have seen him completely exposed. Maybe he was going to live down the embracement sometimes next century. The uniform must have been irreversibly lost. The only set of clothes left was the normal pants and a shirt. Putting them on wasn't the best option with the Vertranian oil still covering his skin, the scent of which made him nauseous. 

Clark retreated to the cramped shower and chose the hottest setting. The stream was beating hard against his skin. Superman braced his arm against a wall and leaned against it, taking deep breaths. The droplets covered his eyelashes, blurring the world. Tainted. Stripped of dignity. All of it must have been witnessed by Batman. Clark was almost afraid to ask. Afraid of finding disdain in the eyes of the blunt to a fault man. Clark rubbed his skin to redness, scraping off the specks of oil long after they were gone. The shower clicked and the water stopped falling. Another fault tossed into a pile of sins. He blew their entire water supply. With a sigh, Clark dried the moisture off with a towel and dressed. There was no point in delaying going down to the cockpit to receive his sentence. 

Batman was in the pilot seat, a monument of vigilance. The numbers and statistics were swiftly flashing on the screen in front of him. He didn't acknowledge Superman as the hero slipped into an empty seat beside him. 

One of the monitors projected his quarters and a bed with the disarrayed sensors dangling limply. Clark ducked his head and tugged on his shirt's sleeves even lower. While he was confident that Batman wouldn't have looked, it was hardly inspiring strutting around the room in whatever he was born in looking for clothes in full camera view. 

Superman tried to gauge the mood. Batman's silences were very different. This one confused him. Bruce was hunched over the console more so than usual, elbows pressed to his body like his wasn't feeling the mastery of the place. It was as if he was anticipating an unpleasant blow. What could he be afraid of? Intuitively, Clark sensed it was connected to him. The Vertranians drugged him with some hallucinogen substance. What if he did something horrible under its influence or unforgivably embarrassing, such as harassing Bruce with impious advances? Worst of all, he didn't remember. 

Clark stared down at his hands folded on his lap. One of the fingernails was burned off and still growing back. They were going to reach Earth with him still staring at his hands.

Batman broke the silence first, strangely enough unable to withstand it.

"I bought you from the Vertrana slave traders," his voice was gruff like he hadn't slept in days. "I was in the crowd when you tried to escape, but getting you out by force was unwise."

That was it? Clark needed more information to be able to accept it even if exactly the same words would have been repeated twice. Batman had gone along with the slave trading practices to free him. It didn't look like the person who often divulged the minimal facts was about to dive into a vivid narrative. 

Batman was looking at him, his eyes pools of shadows, his jaw set grimly. His entire figure radiated tension with an internal battle being fought. Clark dared not guess what it was about. 

Batman's lips twitched and he drew a short breath as if to share something. This small intake formed a nervous knot in Clark's stomach and he flinched like he was trying to ward off a death sentence.

Batman exhaled and tuned away abruptly. The screens began to buzz again with the numbers, but Clark had a distinct feeling Bruce was not seeing them, leaving Clark worried and lost. 

"I used up all of our shower water," he muttered apologetically mostly to say something.

"Your problem. I'm the one who stinks."

"I have an acute sight and hearing, not the sense of smell," Clark protested. "You do not stink."

"I will after five more days, unlike you," Bruce muttered like he had lost a contest. Blasted Kryptonian didn't sweat even in the desert. He sunk into thought as if wondering how to survive five more days in Superman's company. 

Superman was tempted to use his x-ray vision to check his face under the mask, suspecting he'd find weariness, but Batman was ill pleased the first time he had done it and he wasn't willing to breach that privacy again. He focused on the outward signs, the stiffness, the way he shifted with the barely noticeable unease and... 

"You're hurt!" Clark exclaimed and instinctively reached out to take a closer look at the dried specks of blood that stained the cowl along the man's neck.

Batman flinched from him so violently that Clark's hand froze in mid-air and then fell limply back onto his lap with a gelid feeling overcoming him. He really had done something hadn't he? That was fear he saw. 

"I'm sorry," he said stiffly. He didn't know what he was sorry for, but it must have been bad. "I was just trying to help."

"I don't need every little scratch tended to," the finality of that statement was scalding. 

Missing that such retort was aimed inward rather than at him, Clark was solely tempted to repeat again that he meant no harm, but it seemed futile with all his attempts to help being harshly rebuked. "You may have the free time to," he reasoned. "You can rest now that I'm awake. I take it I was out for a while."

"Thirty eight hours. You still look like hell." 

Plus the day they were awake when their cloak went offline and the time when he was looking for the captured hero. It was unlikely Batman took a cozy nap while his team mate had been imprisoned. 

To test his recuperating powers, Clark bent the armrest with his fingers and reset it. The motion was a bit stiff and his head was still far from clear, but physically he felt significantly better. His feelings, however, were a confused blur, like the mystery spun around him was better shoved into a dusty closet untouched, another skeleton in the tangle of life.

"I'm going to stay here. I don't think I can rest right now," said Clark, not expecting it would change Batman's mind in the slightest, but the other pushed away from the console abruptly, leaping to his feet.

"I can." 

Without another word, Batman swept out of the cockpit almost like he was trying to flee from the demons only he knew about. Since the dark knight was running from something then it probably wasn't such a cowardly idea to run from it too, but the only way to defeat the monsters was to get them exposed. Left alone in the pilot seat in front of the muted console, Clark felt like he stood on the brink of diving back into the murky well filled with phantoms once more.


	7. Chapter 7

"Watchtower to Javelin. Bay number one is ready for docking."

Bright, beautiful sunlight ascended over the slumbering globe and bathed the towering structure in orange glow as the little ship sided with it, ready to dock. 

Superman missed this golden speck of light shining in the galaxy outskirts and the blue planet filled with millions of heartbeats. It was alive and bloomed with life, unlike the awing emptiness of space. Occasionally, during the travels, the confines of the ship felt too tight and suffocating. Superman longed to reach the surface where he could feel the rays gently tingle on his skin and breathe in fully the air of the blossoming fields near Smallville. 

As much as he wished it, prior the heroes were responsible for reporting the mission details to the League. The medical procedure to ensure no accidental illness or hostile life forms were brought over, was also a must. 

Batman acquiesced to the procedure as the inevitable evil. Preferring to get it over with, he marched past the curious heroes who gathered at the landing sight as soon as the Javelin glided into place through the titanium gateway and the pair emerged from the ship. 

Superman followed his companion, doing the talking. He returned a warm hug imposed by Diana, indulged a quip shot by Flash and nodded in understanding at a well-done clap on the shoulder from Green Lantern. There were a few puzzled stares at his choice of attire. He hoped to borrow a page out of Batman's laconic book to sidestep a long explanation. He did not want to discuss how he got dragged onto display for an importune amusement. 

How much was Bruce going to divulge? Superman stole a glance at the vigilante who tolerated the Martian's prodding on the bio-bed next to him. The corners of his mouth were set downward. The scowling never ruined the handsome features. It added either a dangerous edge to them whenever the hero was prompted to take radical actions or sunk him deeper in mystery, while he was analysing and reshaping the world. It was neither this time, edging closer to bitterness like he inwardly made an acceptance of what Clark couldn't see.

"There is a shallow wound on your arm," J'onn stated in a tone that bore no questions, and yet he was puzzled. "I don't believe it came from a cold weapon, the edges aren't as clean."

"Wier claws," Batman clarified. "We got into a brawl with Vertranians on the way back." Pointedly, he was avoiding Superman's questioning gaze. During the five days they travelled together, he never mentioned getting into a fight with anyone at the slave market. The planet's violent habits, however, made it unlikely getting through that place without any trouble. 

It wasn't like Batman to complain about the mission difficulties, but Superman recalled the blood marks on his neck. He was guilty of acting in favour of giving the dark knight the solitude Batman requested instead of prompting a bit more to ensure his health was unaffected by their adventure. Even if it would have gotten him more scowls, Batman's well being was too important. 

He hadn't. Inwardly, Clark had felt tired and brittle like a damaged windshield glass that was bound to crack under the opposition. He didn't protest when Batman scheduled their shifts to replace each other rather than sitting side by side at the controls. Numbly, he followed the routine procedures, pressing the buttons and making the course adjustments, while his mind spun around the events, trying to restructure and find a new balance, but it was futile like re-rebuilding a foundation after an earthquake when the large chunks of that foundation were missing.

"Strange," the Martian noted. "Wiers usually battle either at their hunting grounds or for a mate. Their practices are ritual based." 

"Then he went hunting the wrong prey," Batman surmised, which came out like an irate growl. "Unless you found something more threatening than a week old scratch, I don't believe there is a reason for me to remain here any longer. The mission was successful. All the important details are in my report." 

"Batman..." Superman called out after the retreating figure, losing hope that the dark knight would have stayed to discuss how the mission had passed. There was a chance to learn indirectly the small details the dark knight was withholding. 

His foot got caught and Clark stumbled inelegantly. The streak of black disappeared from the room.

"Whoa there! You're usually more graceful than that!" Flash caught the fellow hero and set him back on the bed before Clark made a fool of himself by landing straight on his face. 

"No one is safe from an occasional stumble," he managed a disparaged smile. "Although, I normally prefer to do it on purpose."

"Hey, it's cool," the red clad hero shrugged like it wasn't a big deal. "I probably would have gotten the cramps from being stuck inside the Javelin for that long."

"There is a minor anomaly in your system," J'onn announced.

Superman looked at the lab monitor too. "I feel fine," he claimed, studying the readings. "Vertranians used some form of hallucinatory gas. It doesn't agree with Kryptonian physiology. I expect some minor glitches in my health status because it must still be getting out of my system. Batman already devised an antidote."

J'onn did not press the issue, as much as he wasn't entirely convinced. For a moment, Clark was concerned he would probe his mind, but the Martian's eyes held an orange glow turned inward like he was searching for an elusive memory veiled by ages.

"Then I believe it is safe to release you from the medical bay," he echoed distantly and moved to file the health reports. 

"Good," Clark noted with the enthusiasm he didn't feel. "I must return to the Daily Planet soon. My supposed vacation ended eleven hours ago." 

No matter how many light years away he had been, Superman always felt the pull back to a single blue dot lost in endless cosmos. Metropolis was waiting. 

**************************************************************************************************************************************************

Coward. Even with self-condemnation settling like a tomb on his chest, Batman kept walking towards the bay where the black aircraft armed with the bat shaped wings stood. He needed to get away from those gentle eyes, lately filled with restlessness, that haunted him with the questions unspoken. 

Bruce was dead tired when Superman regained consciousness after their encounter with the Vertrana inhabitants. The shallow wounds stung like needles and the monitors kept drifting out of focus as Bruce desperately tried to concentrate on the explanation letter. He picked different words, re-arranged the sentences. None of it made the truth better. The same chaos permeating in his mind was also on the monitor, a soulless jumble of words incapable of broaching his feelings. Sensing the air shift as Clark entered the cockpit, Batman hit the delete button in a tangle of emotions that resembled panic, eradicating each word. 

Dressed in a casual attire, shirt firmly closed to the last button like he was still shielding himself, Clark looked very much human besieged by their weaknesses and vulnerabilities. He was pained and tired, uneasily assuming the nearest seat and fidgeting with his sleeves. 

Batman spoke up if only to disrupt the disturbing stream of thoughts that plagued his companion. A short lived relief softened the hard lines on the hero’s face at the partial explanation about his escape from captivity. The childish naivety that having Batman at the scene meant nothing bad would befall him, equated Bruce with an entity worse than slime. He didn’t deserve such trust. Worry flooded the handsome features once more as Bruce took a shuddering breath to confess. One moment stretched into eternity where both of them intuitively knew they stood on a brink of disaster. It was cutting and capable of inflicting pain. All the good will and friendliness were about to turn into loathing and destroy the uneasy truce forged between their differences. As his lips twitched to speak up, Clark made an unconscious gesture. His hand flew up, begging for him to stop, offering a smaller sacrifice to preserve the existing world. Batman obeyed that plea.

He was still running from it, fleeing towards mortal danger where the hail of bullets and the rush of adrenaline raised by the deadly dance around the enemies to strike them down, didn’t allow dwelling on weaknesses. The nastier was the scrape, the better to become lost in it. 

The bat aircraft welcomed the owner as he slid into a pilot seat that grounded him. In it, with the familiar controls responding to each command, his existence had purpose.

Prior to their mission, Batman was investigating a new threatening influence creeping up across Gotham. The damage must have grown extensive in his absence. It had to be eradicated at the root, which lay in Sicily. 

The black ship took off, hesitating briefly at the brink between the docking bay and the open space. And then its engines exploded to life, turning the ship into a blazing dot that swiftly vanished in the blue atmosphere. 

**********************************************************************************************************************************************

“Kent! Welcome back. Get your butt in here this burning instant!”

The chief editor was his usual business self with Lois Lane already perched up on the edge of his desk, her expression mutinous.

“Hey, Smallville,” she greeted friendly enough without an excessive enthusiasm. 

“What can you tell me about this dashing Sicilian?” Perry White jammed his finger at a picture projected onto a large screen in his office. On it stood a brick faced man in a fedora with a large, yellowed teeth sunk into a steaming cigar. A typical Mafioso.

“I…” Clark knocked down a pile of papers stacked on the desk and made a laughable effort of preventing them from collapsing. The pages scattered all over the floor and he knelt to gather them. 

“So,” the chief prompted, “how do you like his face?”

“I don’t.”

Even had the man looked like a saint rather than a shady character who twenty minutes ago buried a few men in cement, Clark wouldn’t have liked him because the Sicilian was shaking hands with Lex Luthor who had a smugly satisfied look stretched across his face. The heading under the picture was in bold print, ‘A revolutionary agreement has been signed between Luthor Corporation and Antonio Moretti Enterprises.’ 

“Great! You get to work on this guy with Lane,” Perry announced. 

“I thought we agreed this was my story!” Lois jumped off the table, eyes blazing with indignation. Judging by the fierce determination, the story was worth its salt and she didn’t want to share the thunder with anyone on the rights of being the first to begin unravelling it. 

“Someone has to keep an eye on you, so you don’t get carried away,” the chief growled. “I don’t need dead bodies, Lois.”

“Who will be keeping an eye on whom?” she spat back, glowering at Clark who knocked down a pencil case while setting the papers back on the desk and managed to slip on one of them. 

“Don’t worry, Miss Lane,” Clark assured, adjusting the glasses thrown askew on his nose. “I will accompany you everywhere and I won’t let anything bad befall you or your story.” 

“That’s what I’m afraid of,” Lois rolled her eyes and stalked out of the office in grudging admittance of defeat. Clark was nice of course, but she was always concerned more about his safety then her own. In her opinion, he was the one who needed saving.

Clark dropped the pencils into Perry’s arms and ran after her. Where Lois Lane went, trouble often followed. 

As usual, the elevator she stormed into slammed into his face. Clark followed the stairs to stand right in front of the building entrance, seemingly gawking at the birds while tracking her progress through the walls.

“You need to stop appearing in front of me after I leave you behind,” she noted. In demonstration that her temper mellowed, Lois dumped a heavy folder into his arms that contained the information.

“I fly.”

“Sure you do, Superman. Let’s take my car while you read this or do you intend to fly us there?” 

“Just you or should I pick up the car too?” Clark bumped his head against the roof, meekly following her commands.

“Why don’t you bring Moretti’s house over here then, instead of troubling us with the trip? I’m sure he’ll be more than willing to give us an interview, greatly impressed by such form of travel.”

The air in the car warmed by the sun was quite stifling and Clark opened the window wide to take a deep breath. Lois wasn’t very gentle on the gas pedal and the car lurched along with his stomach as they accelerated, nearly knocking down some by-the-road sign.

“Hey, you better not let any of those pages fly out the window,” she warned, seeing him lean as much outside as it was safe to do. 

Clark’s stomach rolled again as she slammed on the breaks at the lights ahead turning red. He wasn’t getting car sick, was he? They had to cross the entire Metropolis to get to Moretti’s residence. This was going to be a long ride.


	8. Chapter 8

The place Moretti chose to stay at was exactly as Clark imagined - tasteless, huge and with a giant wall keeping everyone who had no business being there out.

“I don’t suppose choosing a residence with a wall this high means he doesn’t want any visitors?” the reporter inquired as he and Lois circled the house. 

“That’s the spirit, Clark! We’ll be the first to get an exclusive interview.” Lois was eyeing the wall for the suitable handholds. 

“Or a slap on the wrist by the judge for trespassing,” he mumbled.

“Aren’t you a real sunshine today. It doesn’t suit you.”

Knowing the inevitable, Clark swallowed the barb and looked through the wall to ensure they wouldn’t immediately hop into the hands of security on the other side. Or he tried to. The outrageously painted red fence stood solidly before him. These were just bricks without the copper in the composition. Clark removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes. Lois was muttering about the annoying high walls. Slowly focusing his power, he tried again. The picture emerged reluctantly without clarity.

“Hello? Fence to Clark. Are you just going to stand there staring at the wall?” 

With just one call to come along, Lois jumped down. Clark followed, feeling quite strange like the earth for an instant refused to let him go. He landed gracelessly on the other side. 

It was a bare lawn, leading up to a wide cobblestone driveway with the tacky statues on each side. There was no cover. Anyone crossing the space was visible like on the palm of the hand. Most likely non-imaginary gunmen were keeping the area under trigger. Clark moved ahead of Lois who for all her subtlety marched directly towards the front door.

"Uh... Lois...I hate to tell you, I think we've been spotted." 

The gates rattled open. In a cloud of dust through them sped an armoured limo with the shiniest bumper decorated by massive gold chains. Its wheels screeched to a halt at the main entrance. Two cupboards, proportioned two on two meters, in funeral suits jumped out to tackle the intruders and drag them like sacrifice to the altar towards the limo.

"Now, gentlemen, there is no need for excessive violence as we would come voluntarily," Clark tried to smooth the situation with Lois making a great contradiction about that claim.

"Let go of me, brick brain!" she shouted, hitting the capturer with her purse over the head.

"Indeed, there is no need to be rough with the Lady," a voice laced with a heavy accent in spite of the nearly perfect English came from the car as no other than Moretti climbed out.

Superman caught a glimpse of a black suitcase dumped on the salon seat, apparently too important to be thrust into the trunk. 

"Clark Kent and Lois Lane from the Daily Planet," Clark introduced them, not liking one bit the sultry look emerging in the dark eyes as the Sicilian regarded the stately brunette. 

"Forgive the unfriendly introduction. What brings such a lovely woman to my humble home?" Moretti grabbed Lois' hand to plant a slobbering smooch on it.

"I'm terribly sorry!" a side mirror Clark leaned onto tore off and clattered onto the prospering businessman's foot. "Let me fix that for you!" The reporter scrambled to pick up the shattered car part and tried to screw it back on like it was capable of magically reattaching itself. "Oh, well, you might want it back. Here you go." Inserting himself between the Sicilian and Lois, he dropped the broken piece into the businessman's hands whose face turned livid before he swallowed the damage to his multi million car along with the murderous instincts before the press. 

"Your deal with the most influential man in the city has draw interest as well as suspicion," Lois called over the fellow reporter's shoulder. 

"I cannot understand these insulting insinuations against the most peaceful medical research. My company sponsors a number of scientific hubs across the world. Since anyone who wishes to expand business into Metropolis must ask Mr Luthor's permission to do so without obstructions, there is nothing criminal in the making." 

The man stepped around Clark, giving him none too gentle shoulder bump as he did so. A pain shot up his arm like he hit a mountain and he glared suspiciously at the reporter who crashed to the ground and bountifully apologizing got back up, ungainly brushing the dust from his suit. He looked too pathetic and Moretti dismissed the incident, thinking sometimes he didn't know his own strength. 

"Except the material Luthor provides for your research can also be used in a number of outlawed branches of studies, genetic manipulation for instance." 

"Miss Lane, I'm but a businessman. Should you have questions, I can arrange an interview with our science staff. They will provide you with a detailed report about the uses of those resources. I can offer no more than a personal tour of the facility." 

Moretti dropped a hand onto Lois' shoulder, baring all of his teeth in invitation. 

"Whoops! Sorry about that!" A crystal statuette of a busty woman set on the car's hood tore off and Clark put it back like it was meant to be lying around there all along. "We'll be sure to come. You seem like a very nice man. I'm sure all those rumours about you creating biogenetic monsters in the lab to take control of Sicily are completely untrue." 

"Too true, Mr Kent. These accusations hurt my feelings," Moretti theatrically took off his hat and pressed it against his heart. "All this medical research is dedicated to my poor dead mother who died of cancer far too early. As thinking about her breaks my heart, I must beg to be excused from your company. Like you wonderful Americans say, it's time for the honoured guests to get off my lawn."

The two goons took it as a sign to grab the intruders and dump them outside as Moretti called his goodbyes. 

"Miss Lane, should you ever decide to visit Sicily, do visit my residence. Not you, Mr Kent. Don't come. I worry you might break the island and I'd like to continue living on it."

"Are you really going to accept his invitation?" Clark asked once the funeral suits gave them the boot off the premises. "All of it will be staged like for a city inspection."

"Of course I'll go!" Lois stated like it wasn't up for discussion. "He might slip up or I might find something more interesting inside."

"Something we aren't welcome to."

"Stop worrying and let’s grab some hot dogs on the way back. I'm famished." 

"No!" Clark's stomach somersaulted at the idea of another car trip with the mustard and sauerkraut smell to enhance the effect. "I mean thank you, but I got another story in the neighbourhood with an elderly lady about the heirlooms passed to her from the WWI. Would you like to come along?"

"Oh yea, heirlooms, great," Lois looked dead bored by the mere mention. "Sorry Clark, but I got bigger leads to chase. See you later."

Clark walked Lois to the car with sincere wishes to have a safe trip. As the noisy vehicle disappeared with a roar, the reporter opened his notebook and penned down a code he caught a glimpse of when Moretti exposed the suitcase.

G83221XM 

He had leads to chase too with a far faster trip back to Metropolis. Flying was so much better than driving. 

***************************************************************************************************************************

Superman undoubtedly would have liked this place, the vintage streets running up like the creeks towards the emerald sea, the Italian pines swaying in the breeze and the sidewalks pierced by the scorching sunlight down to the cracks in the asphalt, leaving no blissful shade, no place to hide. At least a beige hat he had on and the thick rimmed sunglasses covered him from the blistering light that hopefully wasn’t going to melt a grotesque scar dissecting his cheekbone top to bottom, radically changing the angles of his face. This was nothing like the rainy Gotham and Bruce didn’t approve of it, leaning against a happily yellow wall to observe a modernised, square edged building that clashed with the twisted, flowery architecture. 

He was waiting for Dr Ricci who had access to nearly any file at the Moretti’s research center or at least to the one Batman wanted him to fetch. The doctor was prone to minor corruption, cracking down on which secured his cooperation in petty betrayal as long as he did not get caught. Ricci was a fidgety character. And he was late.

The sapphire sky framing the building was like Superman’s eyes. Clark. Clark Kent. Clark Wayne. Out which recesses of the mind had that come from? No! Definitely not! His guilty conscience refused to quit and let him banish Superman from his thoughts. He was likely to be turned into Swiss cheese by the Italian led any day and no one would tell Clark the truth. Maybe that was for the best. Batman regretted the shameful escape, but now that he had voluntarily jumped into another bog, it sucked him in over the head where the internal peace of one individual didn’t compare to preventing another disastrous roller coaster launched by a madman that was about to claim more lives. Every instant lost to act or to tell the truth had its price tag.

Ricci stepped outside. Twitching like a nervous weasel, he headed for the spot where the blackmailer scheduled their meeting. Wrinkling the package as he got closer, he was slowing down like he didn't want to be there, and then dumped it, dropping onto the road and covering his head. Bruce was already gone, melting into the building interior through the door, which he had conveniently lock picked prior to the rendezvous. The door groaned under the full brunt of the machine gun fire blasting it off the hinges, but he was out of reach.

A metal object dropped from the spiralling stairway, hitting his shoulder and rolling underfoot with a ring of death. It forced him back outside, choosing bullets over the flames. The world burst into fire and agony. The cobblestones smeared with blood. Probably his. When the roar died away, a foot encased in a lacquer shoe turned him over.

"Doesn't look too dead. What do we do with this guy?"

"Toss him into the freezer until the boss gets back from Metropolis next week."

"Do you reckon he's still conscious?"

A machine gun butt crashed into his temple.

"Not for long."

***************************************************************************************************************************

Code G83221XM - the Watchtower computer searched the database, throwing all relevant links onto the screen with Superman sorting them out as the Metropolis human resources proved insufficient. Rows after rows of data were scanned with the computers never getting tired. His spine, however, turned stiff as a ladder from the stationary activity that required so much hunching. How did Batman do it? Superman rolled his shoulders and stepped away from the screen.

A flare of scarlet zoomed past and took a sharp U-turn to greet him. "Whoa, are you opening a new space center?" Flash pointed out the activity. 

"Just completing some research for the Daily Planet." 

"Seems dull, not that our work is too exciting. GL and I are fixing the entire side tower along with the auxiliary power generators. Star Sapphire sure wrecked the place in your absence. I was just heading to the surface to grab us some drinks and snacks. Do you want anything?" 

"No, thank you. I would prefer to give you a hand with those repairs. I need a break."

"Thanks!" Flash quirked an eyebrow, considering video games a relaxing activity. "Lifting some multi-tonne things is considered a break, huh?" 

"Physical activities can be relaxing."

"You're welcome any time."

Superman headed for the generator tower to join Green Lantern as the scarlet speedster zoomed to the surface to fetch a meal. They cooperated well, methodically disentangling the clutter piece by piece without collapsing the structure and cautiously navigating around the torn circuitry. It was a grounding activity that had a calming effect of building rather than destroying something. 

“Man,” Flash was grumbling. “Why do these villains always leave a mess? Can’t they for once name their diabolical plans ‘the despotic daffodil planting reign’ or ‘the terrors of the hospital building crusade?’ We’re always fixing everything after them.”

Amused by the image of Darkseid planting daffodils in a lacy apron, Superman missed the moment when the debris craned. John’s shout caught him unaware. 

“Watch out!”


	9. Chapter 9

On instinct, with someone always standing below who could be crushed by the falling debris, Superman thrust his arm upward to catch a huge bulkhead speeding at him from the height of five storeys, rather than evading it. Sharp pain shot through his arm at the collision and his elbow buckled under the weight. The full brunt smashed into his chest, dragging the hero past the sparking wires and the sparse emergency lights. The green aura of the Lantern’s ring enveloped the dislodged bulkhead, lifting it off him, but Superman did not recover from the fall. There was no energy that controlled flight. The gravity was mercilessly pulling him towards the haphazardly spinning tiles and he braced for a painful landing. 

“Got you!”

A stream of wind halted his fall and then he was caught in a secure hold. Flash held him, giving Superman time to recover his senses before setting him on the floor, but kept a supporting hand on his shoulder. The freckles stood out sharply on the hero’s pale face.

“You ok? That looked scary.”

“I must have gotten a poor grip on that bulkhead and it winded me.” Superman decided against mentioning his temporary power lapse. “Thank you for breaking my fall.”

Flash grinned, pacified easily enough. “No problem. Just don’t do it again. I prefer catching the fair maidens falling out of the sky.” 

“I’m sure he’ll strive not to inconvenience you again.” Green Lantern landed slowly, setting the bulkhead aside. “Maybe you should take a break.”

As Superman shook his head, John measured him with a concerned gaze, but seeing no injuries he took off demonstratively, setting an example for the certain red clad slackers to follow. 

The Watchtower monitor was still processing the information when five hours later Superman returned to it. One file, highlighted by the narrowed parameters, got his attention. A picture of a haggard man appeared with a profile. Miku Tang, a child rapist and a serial killer. Sentenced to death in Gotham high security prison without an appeal. The execution date was listed one week in the past. 

Most likely, he used to have unscrupulous dealings with Moretti, which explained the document in the Sicilian’s briefcase. The compromising material had no evident link to the biochemical research, but surely to Moretti’s questionable past, while dead mean told no tales.

Batman was capable of shedding more light on this individual since he knew much of what was happening in Gotham prisons. The thought of contacting the dark knight and be greeted by a frown of a man whisked away from some important task always raised the duality of elation and sadness at being perceived as a pest.

The vigilante was never easy to reach. Trepidation fluttering in his stomach, Superman accessed the Watchtower com system and waited as the signal raced towards Earth. It fell into nothingness like a droplet into the sea of voices without a response. Superman waited two more hours and then switched off the com, defeated.

************************************************************************************************************************************************

"You say you left a half-dead guy in here a week ago and forgot about him?" Moretti was fiddling with his handgun like he was solely tempted to shoot his two dimwitted henchmen. 

"Yea, a real ugly one with a huge nose and a scar all over his face."

"Pray tell, what should I do with this exclusive information? Turn into spaghetti all guys with a huge nose under suspicion of them nosing around?" 

Moretti's mood wasn't improved by an elongated, man size hole burned in one of the freezer walls in shape of a middle finger. No trace of the guy who had done it.

"Double the security," he snapped at the goons since they looked like they were about to run off and execute his first plan. Whoever that wise guy was, he was going to bleed through his nose. Moretti had no doubt he'd show up soon.

************************************************************************************************************************************************

So, the weather in Sicily was prone to improvement. The coastal storm enveloped the city like an inky octopus cloud that growled and thundered. In a clash of fronts, the skies cracked, releasing a massive downpour. The rain slashed against the laboratory windows like it wanted to break them. Powerful gusts of wind rippled into the structural cracks where they howled like the devil in the chimneys, concealing the sound of his movement. 

His pleasure was quite gleeful, finally having the chance to move through the tremulous chaos in the full Batman regalia after more than a week of looking for the best way to bypass the security. The last guard who saw a crawling wraith ten feet tall with the eyes glowing vengefully red as it leapt at him, pissed himself before he passed out cold. That was the only person who saw him, the rest being blissfully knocked out prior to the embarrassment. 

A drop of blood, containing DNA of the supposedly executed G83221XM and a coded disk from the central computer. Batman got every document that he wanted, leaving no marks, no traces. Let them wander. Let them know that someone knows and plans countermeasures. Let them be afraid.

************************************************************************************************************************************************

"With so many ways to track people, you would think one wouldn't be able to disappear for weeks without a trace."

The words came out wrong. They were irritable and accusatory without being aimed at anyone in particular. The two heroes by his side certainly did not deserve such an awful tone. "I'm sorry," Superman added instantly, not sure where to look in shame. 

Diana was startled by such an unusual outburst, but she had a forgiving nature and touched his hand gently. 

"We worry about him too."

Superman tapped her hand lightly in gratitude. J'onn's gaze was heavy on him. Having an honest nature, it never bothered Kal-El whether the Martian could access his thoughts. He still trusted the hero's integrity to never invade the others' privacy needlessly, only the glow in those amber eyes was evaluating rather than invasive. This silent contemplation unnerved him tremendously like he was being asked about something he wasn't aware of. 

"Everyone keep your hands and feet away from Clark. Who knows what else he'll drag into his mouth next."

Clark startled from the daydreaming to an empty page he was suppose to be filling with interesting news, uselessly crumpled on his work desk, and the slim waist with two hands firmly placed on her hips as Lois Lane regarded him with the 'how's being a pig working out for you?' look. 

"Sorry," Clark snapped to attention and looked around, unsure what was happening. "What did I do?"

"Oh nothing, just ate a bag of unwashed spinach I got for the neighbour. Want me to fetch the pot plant too? I think it has some soil left over in it."

Clark glanced at her horrified at being caught doing something so ungainly that he was completely unaware of. Now that he paid attention, there was a taste of dirt on his tongue. 

"No thank you," he smiled sheepishly. "I only eat the soil exclusively from the tomato rows in Smallville, and I will replace whatever it is I apparently ate."

"Something must be heavy on your mind. Where was it when you did that?" Lois asked, switching from the execution to mercy.

"I was thinking about Moretti."

"Don't remind me," Lois groaned. "We got nothing from visiting his factory but some failsome attempts at groping my hips. Lex is shadily quiet on his end as well." The journalist slammed her fist on the desk in frustration. "I bet anything they're laying low, but something will pop up in the future."

"Quite possibly," Clark noted, but didn't entirely agree. He had a feeling another disaster was approaching faster than she anticipated. 

It struck in a flash of emergency news broadcasted onto the Watchtower's main screen. The Sicilian skies dissected by rain with the helicopters bussing alarmingly atop of a giant octopus set on wrecking destruction along the coast. It moved methodically, almost intelligently, using four of the towering tentacles to smash the warehouses, while lazily waving away the machine swarm with the rest. One of its eyes balefully set on a fleet of warships opening fire on it from the sea. A stream of fire accelerated from it, setting the flagship ablaze. One of the tentacles slashed the water, raising a huge wave that sped towards the fleet, tossing it about like little toys, as the monster fought for the right to destroy whatever it wanted, fearsome and unchallenged. 

An indistinguishable black dot swooping down from the cracks in the thundering skies was an insignificant speck alongside this raw power as it swept past the retreating helicopters and cleverly weaved in between the splintered debris wrought by demolishment. Diving low towards the raging beast, the ship ejected a massive container and coming about fired at it, blasting the area into a milky, frigid haze. 

The shockwave shorted out the jet's instruments. It spun out of control at the flailing mutant that swatted it like a fly towards the boiling sea. Leaving a burning streak in its wake, the ship plunged into the raging waves. 

“We better get there fast,” John told an already empty room.

Superman was already out of the Watchtower, racing towards Sicily faster than sound where his heart plummeted into the waves along with the jet. 

“Now you fail me?” 

Batman smashed his fist against the ejection button that did nothing to accommodate his growing need for air as the console exploded in flames, rapidly filling the cockpit with caustic smoke. He wasn’t done with that overgrown mutant after executing the first part of his plan. It was too early to die yet. The jet shuddered like a walnut cracked by a hammer as it crashed into the sea. Maybe he should have kept the League better informed about his plans even if that meant facing… The fire ate away at the controls, flaring up with the greater vengeance, trailing crimson tongues over his cowl that offered only that much protection. Batman slashed the seatbelts that refused to release him and partially in the blind searched for the manual overwrite switch to force the hatch open. The metal heated to hundreds degrees, melting his gloves as the hero tugged at the jammed switch to force the stubborn mechanism into action. The acrid smoke scorched his lungs. Unless he learned to live without oxygen fast, he had about a minute before suffocating. Batman slammed his feet against the cracked glass that was built to withstand far greater pressures. Were there monsters dancing in the flames? Ten more seconds, then the League was on its own.

The rescue came so fast he thought it was a figment of the enflamed imagination, the hatch being torn away by an incredible force. The implosion from the colliding salty water bursting in and the roaring flames stunned with ferocity. He was torn from their mercy by an arm encircling him in chaos, pulling him away from the sizzling cluster of the titanium dying in violent contortions. 

The breath of air was painful as they broke the surface. Batman knew these strong arms cradling him to the muscular chest like a pathetically dripping cat fished out of a mud puddle, and the fit body emanating an aura, warm against the onslaught of rain. ‘I need to tell you what a hypocrite and a coward I’ve been. I must tell you…’ the wish to speak up came out as a croak that morphed into a heavy coughing fit. The arms tightened around him in response, protecting him from the raging elements as Superman headed towards the smoky beach line and set his charge down on his feet, well aware of Batman’s distaste for flying in someone’s arms. The wet sand crunched under his boots. A hand lingered on his shoulder to ensure his footing was secure. 

At the curt nod that he was all right, Superman took off at a great speed, a red and blue dot in the oppressive sea of grey. Batman disdained premonitions, but his gut twisted ill in foreboding. 

Trash the mutant and then they could talk. There was too much destruction and every reason to end the battle fast. Batman extracted a device from his belt, using the data he decoded from the disk, and hurried to make the last modifications. He had been working on its completion when the distress signal came. The burned fingers numbed with pain moved slower than he wanted. The remote control was almost fine-tuned. Just keep that thing occupied a while longer and don't take too many risks, he implored, keenly aware of the light streaks fiercely cracking around the giant form. His team mates weren't capable of staying out of the harms way. 

His chest hurt. The world was lost in the bleak haze. Batman didn't succumb to the tug of consciousness slipping away. And then, the device powered up.


	10. Chapter 10

There was a selfish pull back as Superman took off, calling him to stay a little longer and ensure the fellow hero he left at the beach was not concealing any serious injuries. The time between him leaving the Watchtower and diving into Sicilian sea was at the frigid standstill when he channelled a quiver of panic that he won’t make it into an immense burst of speed. He probably earned more of Batman's scorn by dropping him off relatively far from the place of battle to give him more time to recover after being nearly roasted alive in a burning jet. 

Far off shore, the flares of green informed him that Lantern was bringing the fire under control aboard the flag ship and helping the sailors thrown into water by the explosion. This freed him to head directly for the monster, taking a short detour to grab a burning rooftop hauled through the air with deadly vengeance at the police squad securing the area. “Fall back,” Superman advised the nearest officer, grabbing the projectile before it smashed into a police car. The civilians have been smartly evacuated. A possibility of every place having its Lois Lane to sneak in dangerously close for a front page article was feasible. It was not Superman's desire to command the police. The suggestion stemmed from concern because the monster was giving a hard time even to metahumans. 

“Great Hera! What spawn of Hell is this?” 

Diana held up both hands to deflect a stream of lightening aimed to incinerate her by one of the goggled eyes. She was pushed back by its force, a trench forming where she dug her hells in to maintain balance. 

Cold as snowflakes, the white mist swirled around them. Batman had attempted to neutralise the beast with a freezing weapon. Like all aquatic life forms, the octopus must have been vulnerable to rapid temperature falls.

The creature shrunk, violently lashing out at the offender as Superman's breath enveloped it, freezing the moisture on its skin into a glittering mass. One of the tentacles wrapped around the hero. A crater formed where it furiously smashed the captured prey against the ground. 

The hero's sight dimmed at the excruciating pain as the limb squeezed tighter, nearly crushing his ribs. The world blurred from agony spreading through his abdomen. Hawkgirl’s battle cry tore the air along with her power mace blazing bright. She smashed the tentacle, forcing the creature to drop the victim. 

Superman fell in a heap, struggling to draw the next breath, but the enraged monster wasn’t done with the offender. Its eye balefully focused on the prone figure and flames roared towards him.

They never reached him as another being flung himself in between. Sheer terror etched onto the hero's face, J'onn knelt above him, shielding the team mate from the onslaught of flames. Cracking with energy, the power mace flung into the eye, ceased the attack. 

The world drifted out of focus and when it was back the battle was shrinking into a faint dot on the horizon along with the city. The wind unkindly sunk into the bruises along his face from the swift flight. 

“I’m taking us to the Watchtower transport site,” rather than speaking, J’onn projected the thought into his mind. There were soothing emotions accompanying the message. 

“The others need help! Why have you withdrawn us from battle?” 

Superman tried to get free of the hold. The attempt was shaky and it was ignored steadily. The Martian was a peaceful being. Clark had forgotten just how strong the alien could be. 

“Everyone will be all right. Batman knows how to neutralise the creature. We must trust him.” 

“Are you all right? Those flames have singed you.” 

“The fire tends to bring chaos to my mind rather than body. The burns are superficial.” 

So, they were whisked away for his benefit? “I’m all right. I don’t need to be taken to the medical bay,” Superman protested as the surrounding mountain site faded and the watchtower interior materialised around them. 

The pulsing headache wasn’t giving him clear answers why a being who feared fire above all shielded someone nearly impervious to it. J’onn placed him on the bio-bed and activated a medical console. 

“I would ask that you to cooperate, please. I must run an important test on you.” 

The dark spots dancing before his eyes gradually receded. Nausea arose in place of dizziness. Clark swallowed, in vain convincing his stomach to settle down and studied the monitor data over the Martian’s shoulder.

“This looks like the pregnancy test,” he noted, increasingly alarmed at the readings put out by the machine.

“This confirms my suspicions,” the Martian’s calm voice fell in sharp contrast with the upheaval raised by his words. “You are with life.” 

Superman stared at him blankly, devoid of understanding. Fragmented memories stirred, piecing together the disturbing reality, those vague touches invading him before he awoke in the slave holding cell. 

“It has taken me a while to remember,” J’onn explained. “I felt the same erratic emotions coming from my wife when she carried our children. I had trouble connecting the pregnancy to you." 

“How?”

His biological parents were a male and a female. Clark had always believed Krypton's mating practices were like Earth’s. 

“All life channels towards surviving. There are cases for the sentient life forms where males were capable of reproduction in circumstances where they were the only ones left. You are the last of Krypton. Under stress, your body must have responded and ensured your species' future existence.”

“But, I haven’t been intimate with anyone," Clark uttered numbly, while more pieces fitted together: his changing moods, the nausea and superpower fluctuations. Were they signs of pregnancy? "You mean, while I was unconscious one of those slave trading perverts…”

His body mutinied. Superman dropped to his knees, clutching the bedside. The entire content of his stomach was expelled violently. There were needles sinking into his temples and a malignant weakness numbed his limbs. The bile burned a rutty path in his throat. The physical discomfort meant little compared to the anguish and humiliation that fragmented the world into brittle shards dripping with vomit. The misery lasted for what felt like hours until he was turned inside out with nothing else left to throw up. Clark wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. 

J’onn was an anxious presence hovering next to him. The Martian took his elbow, motioning him to get off the floor and sit back on the bio-bed. A blanket was wrapped around his trembling shoulders.

“Please forgive me for shocking you. I was not aware of the abuse you’ve suffered. I had hoped the news would be welcome.”

“I don’t even know who the other parent is! What if this wasn’t an accident? There are plenty of insane egomaniacs in the universe looking for different ways to conquer civilizations. They could have infested me with a parasite that might inherit my powers and devour Earth!” 

The room swam and Superman was shaking like he was struck by fever.

“The embryo development is three weeks old. It is humanoid, but it is too early to determine the species.”

J’onn was the least judging being he had met, but heavy disapproval slipped into his voice. Superman didn’t immediately understand why the Martian averted his gaze. What caused the scorn? Then, it struck him.

“No!” The idea of destroying a tiny life barely beginning to form was horrifying. “I cannot! I won’t be able to live with myself after!” Even in panic, it didn't occur to Superman to harm the child. The only option remained was to carry the unknown being full term and it terrified him.

“Forgive me again for doubting you.” The Martian once more used their telepathic link, the relief flooding their connection. For his species killing an innocent life was incomprehensible. “You have a noble spirit. I have no doubt your friends will support you through this difficult decision.” 

Tell the others? The rising panic swept over him like the Sicilian turbulent waves. Male pregnancies weren't normal for this world. Would he be perceived as someone abnormal, although, the League members would never utter something this offensive openly. Living in Smallville, even when Clark hadn't known about his heritage, the feeling of being different stalked him his entire life along with the fear of rejection. Would there be disdain, especially after his failure? He shouldn't have allowed the Vertranians to capture him so easily. He should have been stronger. The shame that he had been powerless to prevent the assault, the fear of finding pity or disgust with nothing but his stupidity to blame, coiled around his throat along with the feeling that he deserved it. 

“You cannot tell them!” the vehemence of that exclamation shocked him and Superman softened his tone to pleading. “I’m not ready to talk to anyone else about this. I don’t understand it yet. I still have trouble believing I’m pregnant. Please, don’t tell anyone,” the last plea came out as a sob. 

“Very well, I will be discreet if you wish. You will not be able to keep this secret for long. The others are going to want an explanation because I cannot allow you to take the risk of participating in the League missions. Your safety is the condition to my silence.” 

The Martian rarely initiated the psychical contact like hugs or supportive taps on the shoulder. The thoughts pouring from him were comforting and strived to lessen the fear clouding his judgement. The hero's introspective presence tended to have a calming effect. Gradually, Superman was assured by his promise. 

“I’m sorry for asking so much of you when neither of us is good at deception,” Clark whispered. While they were capable of keeping secrets, neither fared well under a direct line of questioning. “While I cannot stay entirely indifferent to the affairs of the world, I promise to avoid unnecessary risks like wrestling giant mutants. Will this satisfy you?”

“Yes,” J’onn echoed. “I trust your word. I hope you will not hesitate to contact me should you need help.”

There was no judgement, only great concern. J’onn remembered his children lost in the cruel destruction of his people. Holding life in reverence, he worried about the turbulent emotions Superman did not try to hide. 

“Always remember, you have touched the lives of many people who care greatly about you. Do not be afraid to turn to them in need,” he implored. 

"Thank you," Clark answered, but he didn't quite understand it.

**********************************************************************************************************************************************

Four days. That's how much time had passed since Batman regained consciousness on the Sicilian beach with a mouthful of the wet sand and the rising tide licking his cape. 

In the distance, the city was a wail of sirens, telling him the area was secured for the men to move in and begin repairing the damage. Clutching his side, the hero dragged himself to the safety of the Batcave where he holed up, licking the wounds and regenerating unconscious in the restoration alcove to repair the damage to his lungs. It still hurt to breathe. This didn't deter him from entering the Watchtower where his presence, grim and swift, went unquestioned. 

Batman did not have an explanation for anyone other than one man as he swept through the halls looking for a flicker of the red cape. Still unsure how to present the truth, he eventually ventured into the control center to check the assignment roster since Superman was not aboard. 

It was Green Lantern rather than the tower's eternal guardian who occupied the room. 

"Don't tell me you're also planning a trip to Australia," John ventured over a steaming cup of coffee, knowing full well that asking direct questions never worked. "J'onn believes Earth is too tempting a target for the White Martians to abandon the idea of attacking it again," he ended up giving away information rather than getting it as Batman quirked an eyebrow inquisitively. "He thinks the meteorite impacts from his home planet may have carried the DNA traces of the plant he needs to develop the nerve paralytic gas. Superman went with him." 

"Then, I wouldn't count on frequent communication with them," the dark knight surmised. This meant the pair could have been just about anywhere, including the underground or scouting the caverns along the ocean floor kilometres underwater.

"I can inform you should we be contacted," Green Lantern offered. "Did you have a message for them?"

"No," Batman denied, once more resigned to waiting. This conversation was not the type to be shared across the unstable, cracking with static link and surrounded by the eavesdroppers. "I did not."


	11. Chapter 11

There was no up or down, only the miserly, colourless fog stretching in every direction as Superman moved through it. A devouring malice lay in its depths, encircling the prey, pulling him into a trap. 

“Help me.”

The call came faint and pitiful. In the swirling mist Superman made out a human figure holding out its arms towards him pleadingly.

“Who are you?” he asked, taking the proffered hand to help them rise.

The person responded by grabbing his arm, digging clawed fingers into his flesh like a parasite. His skin burned where they touched and his energy began draining away. Superman recoiled, trying to wrench his arm away and desperate to escape. 

It refused to let go, laughing. “No, no, no! I want your strength!” Another phantom hand latched onto the hero’s throat, dragging him down to his knees. “I will drain your power and use it to re-shape the world.” 

“Let go!”

Something shattered. Clark sat up on the bed with a scream, covered in cold sweat. With the nightmare cobwebs still clinging to the muddled mind, he reached for the light. The bedside table was empty. The lamp pieces littered the floor where they smashed against the wall.

This was only a nightmare. His child wasn’t a monster. 

A familiar bout of sickness forced Clark to bolt to the bathroom. He waited out the worst of it until his stomach ceased somersaulting and then leaned against the wall, having no energy to get off the stone floor tiles, not sure the nausea won’t return. 

The silence was oppressive. A dour September rain drummed against the glass, grating the nerves. It was tempting to reach out to J’onn, but the Martian was half way across the world, searching for ways to protect Earth. Their thinly veiled deception held so far under the guise of Superman being there with him.

Squeezing his eyes shut, Clark curled up on the floor. The fears always clawed their way to the surface when one was most vulnerable. The thought of a child was overwhelming. He didn’t know how to start raising one. Not needing to fake awkwardness by hiding behind the thick rimmed glasses as that's how he felt, the reporter had signed up for a prenatal class after work that was occupied almost entirely by women. The female collective giggled at one of the two men in their midst, but overall expressed a wish for their husbands to be as sweet and caring as to take one of those classes too. The constant prying about his imaginary wife and too much attention prompted him to drop the lessons. Mingling with the expectant mothers only confused him. With the questionable alien heritage, he wasn’t sure in general whether the newborn would want milk or will hop off to swallow a few insects. What if it had horns like those guards who probably raped prisoners when they could get away with it? Raising such a different child on Earth at least in this time was impossible. His mind wandered to Supergirl transported to the 31st century for her protection and the gaping hole the departure of his cousin left at the Smallville farm. Would he need to move as well to raise the child safely? Poor, little thing, if it was feared and scorned by its only parent, what chance did it have to turn out good in the indifferent world? He was trying to be fair, struggling to separate the child from the violation, while the nightmares were steadily robbing him of the ability to think clearly.

Shivering in the darkness, Clark wrapped an arm around his abdomen, searching for the comforting words of a lullaby sung by Martha Kent to reach out to his child as well.

Star of the night,  
Star of the day,  
Come to take my tears away...

As he sang softly, there were no stars out that night and no one to hear the prayer. 

********************************************************************************************************************************************** 

“All right, who threw away a very important newspaper I had left on the floor? It has a phone number written on it and one dream of a girl waiting for me to call it.”

Batman scowled at the flurry of hyper-activity as the speedster turned the room upside down. The dark knight was preparing to combust when his chair was flipped in order to check underneath it, nearly depositing him on the floor when a triumphant shout came. 

“Found it!”

‘Congratulations. Now, make yourself scarce by earning slaps from the fair sex representatives,’ Batman intended to say, throwing a withering glare at the fellow hero. 

“Stop!”

Flash froze as the vigilante crossed the room in a fluent motion and snatched the paper from him. 

“Hey, that’s mine!”

The paper ripped, depositing a small chunk of the page into his hands, while Batman made off with the rest of the trophy. It was an article accompanied by a few black and white photographs of Superman neutralising an explosion after a severe accident at the Metropolis factory. While undoubtedly it was the Earth's hero, his behaviour was different. Most of the shots taken were of Superman's back like he was shying away from the cameras, unusual in itself since the hero never paused to think how he looked on the shots, too focused on work at hand. He neither postured for, nor avoided the cameras. There was one picture of Superman moving a truck. The hero always lifted everything above his head with the straight arms that exposed his entire figure. This grip was awkward, concealing his body below the chest level by the truck. The most incriminating part of the article was the date, set a couple of weeks back when supposedly Superman was at the completely different part of the world with the Martian. 

“Whoa! That was fast!” Flash exclaimed in admiration as the dark knight swept past him towards the docking bay. 

The engines of Batman's newly built jet fired up and the ship blasted off with the course set to Australia, bearing maximum speed. 

********************************************************************************************************************************************** 

"Here. You look like you need it." 

Something squishy and dripping in mustard flopped onto the desk right under his nose, emanating the chocking smell of Lois' favourite treat. Clark held his breath. His colleague meant well, regarding him with a playful smile that veiled her concern.

"Thank you. I appreciate your stomach's dire sacrifice," he managed a shaky smile, leaning away from the desk in a vain effort to distance himself from the odious aroma.

"Gee, when was the last time you ate? It must be some outrageous project you're working on at the expense of your health." 

That was a painful question. While the sense of hunger stalked him day and night, keeping down even the lightest meal proved impossible with more being brought up than consumed for the past three weeks. 

"I guess I have been distracted from meals," Clark shrugged vaguely, wishing the interrogation squad would depart and leave him to suffer over a second rate article. Perry White wasn't impressed by his work lately. Neither was he.

The active life of the Daily Planet swam around him along with the muffled sounds of the bursting phones, fervent typing and pages rustling. It was difficult to concentrate on Lois' voice alone. 

"Haven't been paying attention to sleep either, it seems," Lois put her hands on her hips in clear disapproval of the fellow reporter's rumpled appearance. 

The nightmares ensured that his mind feverishly wandered half-awake, depriving him of the badly needed rest. He was light-headed. The stench of the hot dogs was unbearable. Clark jumped to his feet, trying to fight off the nausea until he reached the bathroom. His knees buckled and the room titled at the abrupt motion. The reporter grabbed onto the desk’s edge to steady himself. He heard Lois gasp before sinking into unconsciousness. 

"Clark! Oh God, Clark!"

His face stung from the severe abuse with a small, feminine hand vigorously slapping his cheeks.

"Um... Lois? Maybe you should let him breathe?" 

Yes. Please. That was highly desirable. Clark took a shuddering breath and stirred.

"Look, he's coming around."

A small crowd, gathered around him, drifted into focus. A few people shared wane smiles of encouragement, while everyone else looked plain worried. Rather disoriented, the reporter was helped to sit up. 

"What did you do that for?" Lois punched his shoulder, her eyes swimming. "That faint was damn scary. We were going to call an ambulance." 

A glass of water was pressed into his hands and Clark mumbled thanks to the photographer. Jimmy probably looked paler than he did after the faint. 

"Kent!" 

The crowd parted, letting through their chief editor who strictly glared down at the reporter like he was guilty of some intentional sabotage, but beyond that he worried about the kid who wasn’t himself lately, which at first he attributed to nothing serious like a break up with a girlfriend. 

"What is it I hear about our reporters falling dead on the job? Get your ass home and don't come back for the rest of the week until you don't feel like swooning like a fair princess." 

"I'm not letting him walk home alone in this state," Lois challenged.

"Can I come too?" Jimmy offered timidly, but he was going to sneak out anyway even if his boss didn't approve, not that White planned on stopping them.

"Just don't loaf about munching hot dogs afterwards," he warned as Lois scoffed, though it was hard to tell whether she was offended by the unjust accusation or indignant that her rights to consume hot dogs whenever she wanted were getting trampled. 

Clark was helped to his feet slowly. The crowed gradually thinned with his colleagues wishing him to get well before returning to the Metropolis sensations. The reporters were fast living people, frequently too busy for sentiments. Their support was more so touching because of that.

"We got your stuff."

Lois gathered his elbow into a possessive hold. For once, she ushered him into the elevator ahead of her with Jimmy shuffling in behind them. Clark was grateful for their presence with the dizziness still refusing to let go. 

"Are you sure you don't want to see the doctor?" she asked, but didn't insist. He was a big boy to judge what was better. 

"No, thank you," the refusal came with a hint of alarm. The health lapse was unnerving, more so because it happened at the center of news. The publicity his condition would have received had the doctor checked him would have put an end to his secret identity as the reporter, undoubtedly forcing him to disappear. Maybe it was safer to take a long absence leave from work, but the idea of idling around the small city apartment was depressing. J'onn had already banned him from the League missions and it was difficult keep that promise where he couldn’t help with neutralising the large scale disasters. Clark didn't know what to do without work. Not that he would keep his job with such an awful performance. He wasn't making his boss happy. What if Parry fired him? Those who didn't stay sharp didn't stay long at the Daily Planet. If only he wasn't so terribly tired all the time, he would have been able to complete those articles. 

"You aren't planning on fainting again, are you?" Lois cut through his self-depreciating thoughts. "The pale as death look doesn't suit you." The journalist wasn’t sure she was up for catching an over six feet tall man had he collapsed. 

“Thanks for noticing. One embarrassment per day is enough for me.” 

“Hey,” Lois tapped his chin, tilting it up with a crooked finger. “We all get sick sometimes.”

She seemed softer at that moment like the inoffensive perfume scent of the violets clinging to her fresh skin, prompting an overwhelming urge to hug her. Lois wasn’t made of many sentiments, however, and he suppressed that need, instead withdrawing from her hold to distractedly search his pockets for the keys.

“I got them,” Jimmy handed him the keys from his briefcase. 

“I’ll call you tonight,” said Lois as he fiddled with the lock. “Call me too if you need anything. Actually, just call me even if you don’t.” 

Clark smiled, warmed by her understanding. 

“I will. Thank you.”


	12. Chapter 12

“Where is Superman?” 

The wall J’onn was slammed against rang from the impact. He was examining the corals in an enclosed grotto off coast when he was grabbed by the neck and lifted off the ground a couple of inches. The impenetrable look he responded with only strengthened the dark knight’s desire to shake the information out of him. 

“Isn’t that odd that every time your team communicates with the League visually, it's always you. So, what have you done with him, you alien infiltrator? Have you secretly allied with the White Martians and murdered him once he found out the truth?” 

“I would never harm Superman,” J'onn projected the thought with a powerful conviction, insulted by the ludicrous accusation. “I would more than ever guard him with my life in his condition.” 

“What condition would that be? Is he hiding some serious injury?” 

Similar to an onslaught of fire, J’onn was shrinking under the interrogation, realising how quickly he was tricked by a simple ploy into revealing too much. 

“It is not my place to speak on his behalf. Superman will reveal what he deems necessary.” 

“So, there is a problem.” Batman dropped the Martian, having never believed that J’onn would betray them to the race that murdered his people. “Both of you were awfully secretive after Sicily.” The dark knight’s mind, sharp as a blade, was swiftly cutting through the webs of deception to the heart of the matter. While his mind was flying, his body remained poised and still as an arrow about to strike. “That’s when he got hurt. Were I to check the medical records, what would I find?” 

The vigilante began walking back to his jet, prompting J’onn to nervously hover near. Aboard, Batman had a computer interlinked with the Watchtower database. The dark knight’s codes granted him access until he reached Superman’s personal medical file. 

“What’s the password?” Batman demanded to know, noting how the Martian anxiously tracked his movement without attempting to stop him. “If you really wanted to hide this file, it wouldn’t be here or at least it would be better secured. This is more of an imitation of an attempt to hide something.”

More unreadable stares weighted against the interrogation. Fine, they’d do it the hard way, but he detested wasting time. Batman began to unravel the code, receiving no answer from the Martian who remained divided. While he didn’t agree with Superman’s decision, he still respected it and could not cooperate as much as he hoped the dark knight wouldn’t stop once he set out to find the truth. Twelve minutes later, the access code lit up green and the medical file opened. 

The silence was stony with the wind outside throwing the foam-crested waves against the rocks. Not a single muscle twitched as Batman read the file, turbulent emotions concealed beyond the cowl. 

“Is this true?” his voice expressed nothing as he looked up at the Martian for confirmation.

J’onn nodded. 

**********************************************************************************************************************************************

This was the field leading up to his childhood farmhouse set against the ripped clouds and a pink scarred sky. The grass was a pile of ashes before the door hanging ajar. Superman crossed the distance in a heartbeat, planting his feet firmly on the familiar doorstep and came in. 

“Mom? Dad?”

There was no answer, only a dreadful sound of dripping blood. 

“It was inevitable since I must destroy you entirely and they were in the way,” the voice had no remorse and the phantom’s face was handsome yet cruel. 

“I won’t let you hurt anyone else,” Superman warned. 

“I know.”

The impact shattered the wall as the phantom lunged at him. The air sizzled and glowed angry red like the sky from a burning meteorite with the pair locked in a crushing hold shooting across the countryside. The vice grip on his throat was unshakable, exceeding his power. “So, what will it be, will you kill your child or watch the world burn?” the hands squeezed tighter, fuelled by the only wish to dominate. “You think the League will stop me?” the words where hissed into his ear with a gleeful malice. “I’ll let you in on a little secret. I’ve modified your little device to trap the Watchtower in the phantom zone. One of those pests didn’t fall for it, so I had to kill him. You know who I mean. He screamed awfully when I tore out his heart.” 

Superman never wanted to make this choice. His dread of becoming like his counterpart of the Justice Lord became a reality. The pressure built up behind his eyes, colouring the world in the scarlet glow and the two intense beams bore into the forehead of his aggressor, turning an intelligent being into a vegetable in seconds by lobotomising him. The deathly grip on his throat fell away and they plummeted into the mountainside, darkness spinning around him and stealing his breath away.

Waking up with a start, Clark did not recognise the hoarse scream as his own, but his throat burned. The pyjamas clung to the sweaty skin and he shook uncontrollably. The pillows and blankets were a crumpled mess on the floor, violently flung off. His chest constricted. He needed to breathe. Staggering, Clark made way to the balcony door and pulled it open, met by the rain and slippery tiles sinking miserly chill into the soles of the bare feet. Clark lifted his face to the looming clouds, letting the moisture cool him and gasped for air. 

Many breaths later the panic subsided and Clark opened his eyes. In the mist, only three steps away, stood a brooding figure, black cape closed tight against the weather onslaught. 

Clark startled and made a step back, a foot slipping on the tiles. The fall never came. A glove covered arm encircled his waist, steadying him. The motion brought the two of them close together. His hand slid over the rough texture of the resilient armour and he was overwhelmed by desire to lean against the strong body before Batman moved away abruptly.

“We need to talk.”

It wasn’t a question. Not waiting for an invitation, the dark knight stepped into his apartment. A jumble of nerves, Clark followed like he was the uninvited visitor. How long had the vigilante been watching? What did Batman think about his panic attack? 

“I saw your medical records.” 

His knees going weak at the realisation that his secret was found out, Clark dropped onto the couch. The rain droplets slithered down from his hair onto his back and chilled the heated skin underneath the collar. In detachment, he watched as the impenetrable figure pulled the curtains shut and then with a measured precision came to stand in front of him. Clark swallowed nervously, when the dark knight slowly reached out and pulled off his cowl not bothering to smooth the disarrayed hair. His face was a net of sharp angles and lines set grimly and only the eyes were the streaks of silver, swimming with the underlying feelings that were tearing up his soul passionately. There were always powerful forces swirling in that gaze alone that compelled one to speak. 

“What do you want me to say when I remember nothing? That while I was unconscious one of those despicable rapists…” Clark choked out. A shock when Batman reversed their positions to regard him from the floor by putting one knee on the carpet followed by another, stopped the confession. 

“That despicable rapist was me.” 

Bruce had never feared another silence as much as he dreaded that one fleeting moment when Clark stared at him, not accusingly, just lifelessly like he did not understand.

“It’s the law on Vertrana to break the purchased slaves right there and then. I thought I could subvert it, but they left me no choice. Otherwise, they were going to give you away to the next highest bidder. I tried to tell you so many times in so many ways. I’m the worst coward who should rot in jail.”

Clark’s hand folded into a fist and his lips parted with a small intake of breath. Bruce expected anything - a scalding retort, a righteous accusation burning him to ashes, the mercy of being punched out to wake up with a black eye in Australia. 

The stricken, blue eyes filled with tears and Clark covered his face with his hands, breaking into the heart-wrenching sobs. He kept wiping away the streaks of moisture running down his cheeks, but the tears refused to cease. Three weeks of anguish, the nerve-wrecking tremors in the face of the unknown, the exposure to the deepest weaknesses and anxieties – they spilled into an endless torrent of an outpouring pain. He leaned against the couch, hiding his face, and sobs continued wrecking his body. 

Bruce faced the outpour of anguish petrified, self-jailed from reaching out to lay a supportive hand on the trembling shoulder, helplessly repeating like a broken record with self-condemnation, self-hate, self-loathing.

“I found no other way.”

“I found no other way.”

“I found no other way.” 

The horrible night filled with pained sobs was never going to end. Bruce didn’t know what to do. He didn’t know how to make it better.

Eventually, the heart-tearing whimpers stopped and turned into the uneven breathing as Clark cried himself into exhausted sleep. 

The child was his. All facts pointed to it without a DNA test. The date fitted. Not to mention, once he had gotten Superman to Javelin, Bruce had checked foremost for any other signs of violation, finding none. Whether or not he was prepared was irrelevant, as much as Bruce felt inadequate in measuring up to the task of becoming a parent and before that caring for his involuntary partner. He had always avoided expectant mothers, given how they required editing his speech to the delicate standards, which he found burdensome and the overall experience terrifying. Contrary to the popular belief, making pregnant people cry by most insensitive remarks wasn't one of Batman's aspirations. Bruce didn't know how he was going to behave with Clark once the man woke up after spending years perfecting ways to snap at him mercilessly to keep the Boy Scout at a safe distance where Batman wasn't in danger of losing whatever remained of his heart. 

They still needed to address how they were going to handle this pregnancy together. Given how their conversation had barely started, Batman chose to wait at the apartment, unsure he would have been capable of leaving had he nothing to say, torn apart by the hurt he caused and a knot of worry forming in his stomach at the gaunt look haunting those trouble creased features. 

The awkward posture of leaning against the couch sideway seemed awfully uncomfortable, but Bruce was loath to wake the man who looked utterly drained in order to get him to the comfort of his bed. Batman hesitated, nervous as a caged tiger, about moving his friend. What if the motion woke him and he panicked at being held tight by the person who violated him? The concern for his health eventually won. The reporter was going to wake up with a sore neck and back cramps left the way he was. 

As gently as possible, Bruce placed one arm securely around Clark's shoulders and the other underneath his knees, and lifted him, troubled by how light the tall man was in his arms. Clark's head lolled limply onto his shoulder. The dark circles under his eyes stood out in stark contrast with the pale face. It was tempting to carry him directly to the medical lab and inject with the food supplements. Rather than gaining weight, the reporter had lost it. A collar bone, peeking out from the rumpled pyjamas protruded sharply.

Clark didn't stir as he was carried across the room and put back to bed, but gently grasped Bruce's wrist when the other picked up the blanket and was securely tucking it around his form. The trapped limb was pulled it between the sleeping man's cheek and the pillow. Very carefully, Bruce attempted to free his hand, but in spite of the hold being most delicate, it was easier to move Jupiter off its orbit than to pry his hand away. 

Bruce sat down on the floor at the head of the bed with his hand held prisoner, listening to the soft, irregular breathing and waiting for the bleak, grey dawn.


	13. Chapter 13

Why do you hold my sordid hand like it is worth consideration after all I have done to you or do you cling to it like its the only safety line? When I would flee from me and curse the impossibility of it, you still hold on like I am worth saving. Unlike me you have a choice to fly away or have I inadvertently defiled your essence and cut away those wings, dooming you to earth with me? His wounds kept bleeding poison and soiled all the pure things his presence touched. That's why he kept fleeing from this angelic being and rued the day he finally reached out for him. Somewhere, somehow he had to put it right. Yet, how could he without getting even closer when he deserved no forgiveness. 

The dark knight must have drifted off during the night because his mind whispered accusations. Grievous questions were spinning through his fragmented dreams, thinking of Clark, wondering and besieging until Batman snapped out of their hold. With the ever undiminished will to never succumb to dread he vanquished them. 

His eyes snapped open. Even through the firmly drawn curtains Batman knew the dawn's approach and along with it the unrest of melting away from the public eye, disappearing until the night descended once more. Sensing his discontent Clark stirred too early, not getting enough of the much needed rest. As he did so, Batman subtly pried his hand away from the loosened grip and got off the floor, retreating towards the curtained balcony far from the bed. Still groggy, Clark ran a hand over his red-rimmed eyes. His gaze was foggy as it travelled across the room, eventually stopping on Batman and gaining clarity. 

Bruce was tempted to ask whether he was all right, an empty question when nothing was so. Its meaning ranged between asking whether Superman wanted a glass of water or desired to break his neck.

"How upset are you with me?" Bruce forced himself to speak once the awkward silence stretched into infinity. 

Clark searched his jumbled emotions, finding dire emptiness mixed with a prostrate relief like he had given away his entire strength to face a monster and discovered it had been an illusion. "My mind says I should be angry that you haven't told me earlier, but I cannot blame you." Only a bone crushing weariness like the one present after a storm was calling him to sleep forever. "I was afraid that some heinous monster had infested me and wanted to turn my child into a destructive weapon that would pose terrible danger to Earth and I'd have to destroy it. I didn't know how I'd bare killing my child." 

The idea was horrifying. Clark clutched the blankets. The memories of his nightmares, still raw and dreadful, washed over him like flood, the scarlet light burning away an integral part of him for what seemed like an inevitable sacrifice. In a dream he made such an awful decision. The room was swimming out of focus and there wasn't enough air.

"Calm down," there was a voice calling him to the surface. "You're hyperventilating." There was pressure applied to his stomach just below the ribs and another hand rested on his chest. "Purse your lips and breathe in through your nose." While the voice bore no contradictions, it was steady and aimed to alleviate his fear. "There is only our son or daughter who will grow up to be caring and helpful like their father. They'd never hurt anyone." 

The reassurances were bringing Clark back to his senses and his breathing steadied. He was securely placed onto his back with one pillow tucked under his head and another behind his back. The black cape folds were falling over him. Batman was leaning in closely to bring the panic under control. In contrast with the rich voice moulded into instilling calm, the vigilante radiated tension and was ready to bolt at the slightest flinch. 

"Clearly, you're not up for handling this situation alone and I'll be damned if I shrink from my responsibility."

While the accusation made the reporter wince, a part of him was glad that Batman hadn't come for an explanation with the intention of disappearing once more. After waking up for so many nights on the floor retching miserably, he didn't want to be left alone. Clark desperately longed if not for comfort then at least for someone's presence he could rely on. Batman wasn't impressed by his delusions, but hadn't abandoned him to suffocate. His hands still rested on Clark's abdomen securely, while the vigilante continued lecturing him. 

"From what I gathered male pregnancies are uncommon for the Kryptonians too. You might require some unforeseen medical attention you have no direct access to in Metropolis. Not to mention, it's dangerous to remain here with Luthor keeping the cameras all over the city, tracking you none the wiser." 

Batman was looking at him expectantly, waiting for Clark to make the connection. The reporter lay quietly, devoid of understanding where this was going. Bruce wished some suspicion would have surfaced that would have given the fellow hero a minute of getting used to the idea before it was proposed. The solution was bound to be uncomfortable for them both. For Batman it meant widely opening the door after building a stone wall brick by brick to separate himself from this person. Yet, looking down at the drawn face and a brow creased with pain, his inner disquiet sprung from the dire concern that Superman was going to decline his plan. He wanted, he desperately needed to wrap Clark in a safe cocoon and hide him away in a place where he could recover. 

"I understand you may have reservations about staying at my residence, but the Wayne Manor is large and we wouldn't need to share each other's company should that prove uncomfortable. That place has a far better medical access than your apartment. Most importantly, you will be safer in Gotham." 

As ironic as it was with Gotham deemed far more dangerous, Batman held control over the city network, unlike in Metropolis with Luthor spying on everyone. It was easier to escape suspicion in his home city. 

"You want me to live with you?"

The question was so incredulous, it prompted Batman to release the fellow hero and rise to begin pacing the room apprehensively like he was trying to find a better solution than treating a poisoned wound with more poison. Understandably, the notion of living in close proximity with someone who got him pregnant without his consent was disturbing. Bruce clung to the arguments he constructed on the way to Metropolis. 

"I hardly think either of us can afford to be selfish and do what is more convenient. The child's welfare is a priority," he pointed out. 

"I'm sorry. I'm not thinking straight right now."

A quiet apology stopped Bruce mid-step with a sting of regret at being responsible for the additional guilt that Clark was so fast to assume when the Kryptonian was already troubled. It hadn't been his intent to worsen his condition with the additional accusations. Bruce had spoken those words mostly meaning his personal reservations. Truly remorseful, he drew a breath to apologise when Superman reached a decision, like always putting forth another being ahead of himself. 

"I accept."

There should have been some lingering resentment at having his life upturned, but the quick consent made the dark knight feel like a huge burden was lifted off his shoulders. 

"I would like you to pack today, please. I will return in the evening to take you to Gotham," the vigilante didn’t waste time once the decision was made. He wanted everything done as soon as possible before something urgent came up to upend this intent. “Before I go, I would like you to put this on.” 

The object Batman removed from his belt had a square monitor and strongly resembled a normal watch. The vigilante wore a duplicate on his hand. “This bracelet monitors life signs. It will let me know if you are in danger,” he explained 

While it was a request, declining wasn’t an option. Clark offered his hand without a second thought, suppressing a shiver at the rough fingertips brushing his skin as Batman fastened the bracelet to be close-fitting without clamping down too tight.

Having obtained his agreement, the vigilante put the distance between them once more. Leaving already. As much as the dark knight’s presence made him uncomfortable at being caught in such a weak state, it was upsetting seeing Batman pull the cowl back on, while the imagination marked how the action was deliberately slow. Clark had an irrational urge to beg the vigilante to stay as Batman slid open the balcony door. 

The hero stopped abruptly when Clark drew a short breath, giving him a chance to speak up. Pulling the remaining shreds of dignity together, Superman said nothing. The grapple gun released, taking the dark knight away into the twilight submerged morning.

The gust of wind rippling across the room in his wake made Clark shudder. He rose to close the door, inwardly assessing his well being. It was better than in days, devoid of the constant nagging of nausea. The bathroom mirror, however, gave him a very pitiful picture of the haggard features. No wonder Batman insisted on having a medical check up after facing such a wreck. 

Clark didn't risk making breakfast in fear that his relative well being would be short lived and went ahead to pack his belongings before his energy diminished. There weren't many things. Having arrived with a small suitcase from Smallville, the amount of his possessions hadn't significantly increased since settling in Metropolis. 

The packing went slowly with his thoughts wandering away and malignant weakness plaguing him. At least nothing was rumpled or ruined. Clark did all the household chores, including keeping his shirts crisp clean and ironed, automatically even when he was sick. Living with his adoptive parents in Kansas, he always strove to help his mother, while Martha Kent ran her household exceptionally neatly, instilling in her son the values to clean up all the messes. Ashamed that he had been seen so bedraggled, Clark dressed meticulously, smoothing out the wrinkles from a blue suit and put on a red tie.

The notion of living with Batman for the duration of the pregnancy made him painfully shy and exposed at the point in life when he was most vulnerable, while he always wanted to be at his best in front of the mankind’s greatest hero instead of demonstrating what a hormonal, overly-emotional burden he was. 

Of course Batman made it clear he was sacrificing his personal space for their child’s well being in spite of his wishes to keep Superman as far away as possible. Nonetheless, the vigilante's businesslike approach and acceptance of a life changing circumstances quickly sorted a chaotic situation into order with a step by step approach and solving immediate problems as they arose. The dark knight had never expressed a desire for a family, but he wasn't going to dismiss the responsibility. Their child would be protected even if it was going to be done without sentiments. Batman's reaction was much more reasonable and helpful than Clark could say for himself. 

Clark perched up on the sofa and placed a hand on his abdomen apologetically, wrecked by guilt. "I'm so sorry little one. I've been so terrible to you." Tears prickled in the corners of his eyes. He was the worst parent in the world for having those violent dreams. "I will do better taking care of you," he promised. Clark closed his eyes and focused on the tiny light inside. It was still too small to find a connection or a flicker of emotions. 

It was tempting to curl up on the couch for a long nap. Warding off the urge to slump, Clark picked up the phone to leave a message for Lois that a friend of his was taking him out of the city for recovery. As much as he expected her to pry, he was disappointed that she must have still been at work chasing exciting stories and didn’t pick up since her dry wit and humour would have distracted him from the emerging anxiety of waiting for Bruce to come back. 

What if he wasn’t coming back? What if Batman decided that this was too much of a nuisance and changed his mind? Clark recalled how the vigilante recoiled from him in the Javelin and the distance he put between them at every opportunity. It must have been traumatic to be forced into a sexual intercourse with someone he wasn't even attracted to. This avoidance made Clark feel so dirty. As much as his situation disturbed him, he felt worse for Bruce and beyond that so sad that his pure feelings and attraction to the dark knight manifested in such a twisted way. Worse yet, he did not want to be pushed away even after everything that happened. How were they going to mend yet another crack wedged between them? What could he do or say to make it all right? 

Clark knew the experience was there, pushed into the recess of his mind. The memories were strange things like the currents and mixed layers of water swirling in the bottomless oceans, capable of drifting to the surface when prompted by a stray sight, smell or touch. There was Batman’s hand on his abdomen, its weight familiar on his body, drifting up to rest on his neck and a powerful, masculine form stretched above him very close without touching. A faint breath ghosting over his ear and a whisper filled with regret, 'I'm sorry.' 

Clark jumped, startled by a mild-mannered knock and realised that he had drifted off. A swarm of butterflies fluttering in his stomach he got up and summoning courage went to open the door.


	14. Chapter 14

It could have been anyone: a mailman, neighbour, or Lois. Batman wouldn't knock. He was more likely to sweep in through the window. Possibly, Clark imagined that someone was on his doorstep. The sun set fairly early, draping the after work weariness invoking veil over the city and making the hour look late, while it was barely past seven o'clock. Clark turned the handle, thwarting a possible disappointment by telling himself that he was passing the desirable for reality. 

"Hello, Mr Pennyworth. Please come in," he stepped aside to let Wayne family's trusted butler enter, schooling his tone into politeness with an inward pang of chastisement that it wasn't kind to be unwelcoming because he had expected to see a different person. He should have been honoured that Bruce had sent as close to a family member as he had to fetch him rather than abandoning Superman to his own devices to travel to Gotham. "It's a pleasure to see you again," Clark added. They were introduced long ago, however, Superman hadn't been welcomed that often at the Wayne household. 

"Good evening. May I say, it is an honour to see you again. Mr Wayne requested to bring the car up to your apartment when you are ready." 

"Thank you, I am." 

Alfred knew about his secret identity, but the choice of words stirred some bashfulness as it was an undeservingly high praise coming from Batman's confidant. To hide his dismay, Clark hurried to get his modest, worn out suitcase and with the last look at his apartment stepped outside, followed by the butler who picked up the luggage as soon as Clark set it down to lock the door. 

"I understand that this is your job, but I always feel bad when someone else carries my things," Clark told him as they stepped into the elevator. 

If the request mildly perturbed him, none of it showed in Alfred's calm demeanour. "It would be a shame to make you feel bad, Mr Kent," he stated with dignity, passing the suitcase back to the owner and letting him place the luggage into the car trunk as they came outside. 

Clark felt really silly, for some reason having imagined the Batmobile parked in front of his apartment building. The car waiting for him was a black limousine with the heavily tanned, most likely bullet-proof windows. With the door being held open for him, Clark climbed inside, getting shielded from the miserly wind lashing out against the pedestrians that had crawled in from the north and dropped the temperatures rather low. The door clicked shut, along with the lurch of his heart upon finding another person waiting in the car. 

Dressed in a charcoal suit and leaning against the seat with one leg draped over the other, Bruce Wayne regarded the other passenger across the entire seat length. 

"Just making absolutely sure you're aboard this time," he announced with a hint of accusation.

"There were weighty reasons for my actions," Clark parried, refusing to be cowed by the husky quality of that voice, which tended to make an impression on whoever got addressed even in their sleep after the vigilante posed an argument. 

"Your life weighted against a scrap of metal outfitted with an engine." 

"With you being inside of it," Clark countered mildly the vehemently tossed statement. 

"Not worth it."

"I think I got my priorities right," Clark replied firmly, watching the corners of the finely sculpted mouth downturn in a brooding disagreement. 

Batman settled for continuing their verbal sparring by fixing his opponent with a lasting, contemplative stare like his attention was divided between Superman and another cause that had something to do with the Gotham criminal element. 

The glasses heavily set on his nose were concealing a part of his face and Clark desperately wanted to cling on to that shield even with their secret identities known. However, it was wrong to hide from the fellow hero. He didn't want the dark knight to think that he didn't trust him. Somewhat nervously, Clark removed the glasses and placed them into his breast pocket.

The full weight of that silver gaze was making his skin tingle and his cheeks were starting to burn. Why was that look refusing to abate? Those eyes had the power to reduce him into a blundering, fidgeting wreck. Clark nervously adjusted his tie, loosening it a notch. The car temperature was rather warm. A treacherous blush blossoming on his face spread to his neck. He looked away, hoping Bruce would do the same. Catching a movement in the corner of the eye, he nearly jumped when Bruce reached for the control panel to bring down the temperature a couple of degrees. 

"That circle on the panel to your left is a bar," Bruce explained, attributing the redness to the physical discomfort. 

"I'm not good with cars lately," Clark offered an explanation for his fidgeting. He had been too distracted to worry about another source of embarrassment, but now that he thought about it, the possibility was more than tangible. Spectacular, just what he needed, to puke all over Batman's multi-million dollar limo. 

"You could have said so. I have a helicopter," Bruce told him, seemingly annoyed that he hadn't thought of it. "I take it the sickness doesn't leave you alone at other times as well?"

"Especially when it comes to meals," Clark muttered, feeling like a kid who complained about a boo-boo, not that Batman interrogations were optional to avoid. 

Clark poured a glass of water from the bar, allowing the cool liquid to soothe the heat. It was tempting to press the glass against his forehead. 

At least the driving was far more merciful than Lois'. The sharp lurch upturning his stomach that Clark associated with driving never came as the car had smoothly taken off without him noticing. The shaded windows protected the passengers from the outside streetlights and glowing advertisements of a large city through which the limo raced at a great speed over the gradually emptying streets. 

Clark suppressed a yawn, only to be overtaken by another. Whatever little activity drained him during the day. The car was still very warm with the dimmed lights and smooth movement rocking the passengers to sleep. His body after the nervous breakdown demanded recuperation. The city lights behind the windows grew sparser apart. Looking through the walls to feel more at ease with being locked inside the moving vehicle would have helped with nausea, but using his powers required too much energy. With the greatest cause for anxiety of not knowing who the other parent settled, Clark hoped the nightmares were going to lessen in severity. The child's father turned out to be someone he greatly admired and cared for. 

Bruce moved swiftly to intercept a glass before it hit the floor as it slid from the loosened grip when his companion's eyes drifted shut and his head lolled against the headrest. The bar compartment closed soundlessly just as the car made a sharp turn. Bruce held out his arms instinctively, catching the man next to him before he had an unpleasant awakening by tumbling sideway. Quickly re-establishing a respectful distance between them failed miserably. Superman's arms snuck around his waist and his cheek came to rest on the vigilante's shoulder. The dark hair strands softly brushed against his chin. A delicate breath from the slightly parted lips tickled the crook of his neck.

Wonderful. The live vine entangling him wasn't going to let go. An attempt to shuffle the other into lying down against he pillows across the seat led to having Clark sprawl all over him even more. Bruce thumped the back of the head against the headrest in resignation. He held his arms above the other with the uncertainty where to place them. The comfortable position where they naturally would have fallen was rather compromising. Another sharp turn made the decision for Bruce as he was forced to secure Clark before he tumbled down. The dark knight glared at the wall that separated them from the driver seat with an irrational suspicion arising that Alfred did that on purpose. 

Was he going to be stuck like that until they got home? It was probably the Kryptonian biological trait to get attached wherever they landed. The clinger frowned and whimpered like he sensed the unkind thoughts or maybe one of his fears assailed him. After a great deal of hesitation, Bruce awkwardly patted the dark hair. "Quit whining," he demanded quietly enough to be heard without waking the other. "You're safe here. I won't let anyone get you."

The clumsy reassurances worked in calming the other. Clark's breathing steadied like that of a person deep in slumber. Bruce listened to it, noting that it was no longer too quick or irregular. The rhythmic rise and fall of the reporter's chest had a lulling quality.

The billionaire's thoughts drifted. Superman had a cute dimple on his chin. Maybe their child was going to have one too. He or she was going to be a cuddler like Clark. Then he'd have two damn aliens latched onto him. Except, Bruce didn't remember whether that was a good or a bad thing. Probably good, he decided, cradling something soft closer to him. 

"Master Bruce."

The vigilante made a threatening noise in the back of his throat at the voice pulling him away from a comfortable lair. 

"We're home."

His eyes snapped open to perceive a limo ceiling with a starless night slipping into the car through an open door. It didn't take Bruce long to gain awareness of a highly dubious position they were in stretched across the entire car seat with Clark's head pillowed on his chest. As much as the dark knight wished to accuse the other of infringing on his private space, he was the one holding the hero. While one of his hands innocently enough cradled the back of Clark's head, the other possessively latched onto a firm buttock. 

Ignoring the ringing in his temples as he smacked the back of his head against the doorframe, Bruce bolted from the car like he was on fire. At least Alfred had the common sense to wake him before disturbing their guest. 

Deprived of the human pillow, Clark's head soundly smacked against the seat, jostling him with a rude awakening. 

"Omph..." he muttered, seating up and looking around disoriented, having forgotten where he was. 

"Mr Kent, we've arrived at the Wayne Manor," Alfred spoke up, completely unruffled like he had witnessed a most cordial tea party scene between two prudish gentlemen. "May I show you to your room?"

"Ok," Clark muttered over a large yawn. Far from awake, he stumbled getting out of the car. 

Bruce grabbed his elbow, deciding it was safer to release his guest once they've reached the bedroom. The Kryptonian followed half-asleep, heavily leaning against his escort. 

"I hope you won't manage to get lost on the way to the bed now," Bruce told him, depositing his guest on the bed in a room they had prepared for Clark's arrival. 

He regarded the Kryptonian sceptically, not so sure the other was going to find a way around his suitcase to change and then bristled at the stupid idea of helping. He wasn't Clark's mother. The vigilante turned sharp on his heel to leave.

"Good night, Bruce."

The dark knight stopped, fighting the temptation to respond and then marched out without a single word. He didn't want to get attached to another stray that wandered into his home by the unfortunate circumstances. He just couldn't. 

"Master Bruce?" Alfred prompted as the vigilante shut the guest room door and moved away distractedly, watching the manor's sliding shadows and listening to the inner demons that danced in his fathomless eyes.

"Take good care of him, Alfred," Bruce exhaled.


	15. Chapter 15

The bed was soft, cradling his body like a cozy hug. Clark buried his nose in the fresh pillow, prolonging the boneless sensation and in vain pleading with the consciousness relentlessly pulling him away from the restful state. Cause lost, Clark peeked at the surroundings through his eyelashes with the previous day's events surfacing. He had no clear memory of the ride to the Wayne Manor only something about his room where he woke up. 

There was daylight filtering in through the cracks in the blue curtains. The room was spacious with many windows, dominated by a large bed at the center. The atmosphere allowed him to breathe easily. The brightened surroundings reflected his inward change. Foremost connecting these sensations to his child, Clark focused on the little flutter inside. There it was - the tiniest rhythmic sound. Still developing and very fragile, it marked the transcendence from an intangible concept to the real being. 

"Hello there, my heart," Clark whispered, joy spilling into a delicate smile and the world turning sunny. How could he have doubted this miracle all the while looking for the tiniest signs? At last, he could communicate with his baby, even if it was a one way steady frequency for now. It was comforting knowing he could focus on the heartbeat at any moment to check whether everything was all right.

A knock similar to the one that came on his apartment door interrupted his admiration. The bedridden countenance hardly inspired him to receive visitors, but it would have been rude to leave the man outside without an answer. Seating up straighter against the pillows, Clark called for that person to enter. 

The door opened, admitting Alfred who wheeled in a tea trolley, set with the finely folded napkins and silver dishes that had a delicious whiff of breakfast floating about them. While his stomach didn't protest immediately, the presence of food raised some anxiety. 

Clark was drawn from that trouble by a person sliding into the room behind Alfred like he wanted to remain invisible. Only the butler's presence stopped Clark from blurting out the joyful news immediately. He was sorely tempted to talk about it anyway. In all the time they've spent together, Clark had never seen Bruce in a domestic attire that consisted of jeans and a form fitting turtleneck. It smoothed some of the dangerous edges, while demonstrating every aspect of the fine physique. Nonetheless, Batman was as formidable as ever, planting his feet wide on the floor and crossing his arms over his chest as he raised an inquisitive eyebrow. 

Embarrassed that he was caught staring, Clark averted his eyes to the tray getting set up in front of him. His gaze fell on an outward seam of his pyjama top, which he must have accidentally worn inside out the previous night. 

"Master Wayne considered you might not feel well enough to move about the house yet and thought it might be best to bring the meal to your room," Alfred spoke up with Bruce shooting him a betrayed look.

Clark thanked them. It was kind of Bruce to be concerned about their child's well being. Since it depended on the parent's health, the dark knight was considering the parent as well. "I'm not sure I'll be able to keep down the meal," he confessed. 

"That's why you should try drinking that concoction first," the vigilante pointed out, displeased by his lack of observation. 

Alfred set a mug in front of their guest. It was a warm drink that resembled tea. Clark sniffed it, catching a pronounced herbal scent. 

"It's traditional medicine. Unlike the modern medication, it's safe to consume to sooth the symptoms."

That was very considerate. Bruce hadn't taken his complaint as a nuisance and tried to find a solution to make it better. Clark smiled at him gratefully. His smile faltered as his host didn't respond, looking impatient. 

To ease the 'hurry up' scowling, Clark took a sip. While the tea had a bitter taste, it had a calming effect. It seemed safe enough to try the dishes. Clark braved a spoonful of porridge generously covered with an apricot jam and swallowed carefully. The food melted against his tongue. Clark scooped up more of the treat and chewed it slowly, enjoying the taste as much as he was still mistrustful. 

"This is delicious! I appreciate you making this breakfast for me." 

Having ensured that his guest wasn't going to die from the tea or starvation, Bruce spun on his heel wordlessly and left the room before Clark had a chance to call out at least to thank him again. 

Was his company that unpleasant? Without further desire to eat, just to be polite, Clark swallowed another spoonful that tasted like sawdust. He was looking into his plate dejectedly.

Alfred cleared his throat. "Mr Wayne runs a large corporation and tends to disappear a lot during the day," while he wasn't convinced that it was an emergency that called Bruce away, the words were meant to be encouraging. "He asked me most instantly to take care of your needs in his absence." 

"Am I that transparent?" Clark asked, wondering who else noticed his attraction. He was giving himself little credit, unaware of the exceptional servant's complicated past that supplied him with a variety of survival skills, including being highly observant. 

"I'm confident Mr Wayne doesn't suspect a thing," he judged. There were some areas in life where his master was as blind as a bat. So was their guest who was relieved by this revelation. The butler poured jasmine tea into a porcelain cup. It was very small in his hand as Clark picked it up carefully not to squish the fine china. He normally preferred sturdier mugs.

"Does anyone else currently live with you?" he asked, enjoying the rich blend. 

When Batman went missing, Superman temporarily posed as the vigilante with the help of his sidekick Robin. He wondered whether the young man still lived with Bruce. While Clark very much liked the bright and gifted youth during their meeting, he was concerned. Living in close proximity with someone meant it was inevitable that his secret would eventually become known to those people. Clark wished to postpone it as much as possible, feeling protective of the little one. 

"Master Dick attends college. While he hadn't shared his plans with us, hopefully he might drop by on Christmas." 

"I'm sure Bruce will be pleased to see him," said Clark. 

While Batman rarely mentioned his sidekick and spoke without much outward warmth, the way Robin talked about his father figure during their adventure revealed a strong bond between them. That adventure strengthened Superman's regard for the dark knight. For having this understanding, Alfred regarded their guest with greater respect. 

A huge yawn popped out of nowhere. Clark clasped his hand over his mouth, blinking owlishly. Hadn't he slept through an entire night? His body ignored such considerations and he yawned again. 

"I'll leave the drapes closed," Alfred announced, collecting the plates efficiently and leaving their guest to sleep.

Feeling sheepish that he was such a mess, Clark tugged off the pyjama top and pulled it back on properly. Another quick nap wouldn't hurt. Most likely, he needed more time to recuperate after the tremendous stress. The Kryptonian buried his face in the pillow. With the lingering thoughts about what Bruce was doing, sleep quickly claimed the exhausted soul.

**********************************************************************************************************************************************

Statistics, the mandatory obligation of running a multi-billion dollar industry comparable in entertainment value to watching a wall paint dry and woefully insufficient in distracting a man from the musings of an alien occupying his home. The dark knight did not wish to remember the horrifying lurch in his stomach when he found Clark on a brink of collapse, standing barefoot on the balcony with his face lifted up to the sky, catching raindrops falling onto his lips. The nearly invulnerable hero was sick, frightened and desperate to hold on to someone, and how Batman had an irrational urge of being that someone to hold him even without the right to say that everything was going to be fine. You don't deserve to be near him after all you've done, a poisoned voice kept whispering in the back of his mind. Leave him be before you hurt him more.

Wayne tossed aside a useless pencil that made no marks on the pile of reports for the past hour. He began to pace just like he had after brining the Kryptonian into his home, torn by conflicting feelings of leaving Clark be or checking whether he was in fact resting peacefully rather than tossing about in the claws of another nightmare. He glanced at the watch monitor that processed his charge's life signs. They were steady enough, but this didn't include small distress like vomiting or nightmares. 

Bruce poured himself a glass of water and drank it as much as it was tempting to splash the water into his face. Fine. Superman was going to be fine. It was odd that he needed any help at all. He shouldn't have underestimated the alien's ability to recover nearly from anything. Clark looked better the morning after he was brought to the Wayne Manor. Still weak and befuddled, but healing, which was everything required of him. He even dared to smile an infectious smile. 

Superman was going to be fine. He should be concentrating on work. Yet, Bruce didn't feel the ruthless efficiency of squishing another obnoxious challenger to the Wayne Enterprises. Not with the plaguing images of Clark looking up at him from the bed with an infectious smile that stirred unrest in his soul. It desperately made him want to smile back, a dangerous and unwelcome impulse, while Batman didn't understand how Superman found it within himself to smile at the person who harmed him. It was best to avoid his guest until the trembling locks around his heart settled back into place and did not threaten the solitude he had chosen. 

**********************************************************************************************************************************************

Clark slept through five days straight, his dreamless and greyed consciousness occasionally marking the meals followed by rest. There were instances when he knew someone was standing beside his bed. It was probably Alfred coming to force some nutrients into his system. With the guilt creeping up that he was being a burden, Clark decisively pushed aside the blankets, determined to crawl out of the first aid room he was hiding in. 

His legs weren't too wobbly as he crossed the vast space to the adjacent bathroom, taking in the details he had been too tired to admire before. The bathroom was spacious with the shower and floor around a large bathtub inlaid by royal blue tiles. Shrugging out of his night attire, Clark got into the shower. Choosing the coldest setting, he allowed the droplets pelting against his skin to invigorate him. 

The hero extended his hearing, listening to the pulse of this new place. Different homes had distinct beats. The Smallville farm emanated serenity where thrived the natural play of the non-intrusive whispers, the vast trees brushing against the rooftop and the owners' presence marked by a faint hissing of the pancakes turning a perfect shade of gold under his mother's expertly ministrations. 

The Wayne Manor was submerged in grandiose silence punctuated by monotonous ticking of the monumental floor clock and the miniscule heartbeats of the bats down in the cave. Out in the garden, the birds flapped their wings and the squirrels busily hopped around the branches in a race to stuff their coffers to the brim before the winter hit.

Clark stepped out of the shower and wrapped a towel around his hips, unwilling to wear again the pyjamas he hadn't climbed out of in days. He didn't hear anyone approaching the bedroom, so Clark judged it safe to leave the bathroom and cross the room towards an extensive closet. He didn't want to be walked in on without a single article of clothing. Prompted by the necessity of frightening the wits out of the various villains, his host didn't exactly always have the manner to knock before popping out of nowhere. 

His clothes were arranged neatly, occupying a very small part of the huge closet. Not quite comfortable dressing too casually, he donned a shirt with the long sleeves and suit pants. The corridor beyond his bedroom was flooded by daylight pouring through the opened draperies. With the large space occupied by no one it was easy to imagine the place had ghosts. The mansion held a dark, haunting beauty. 

Clark followed the sound of another person moving about the house that led him into a kitchen where Alfred was weaving some form of magic over the stove. Tickled by the mouth watering scents rising from the frying pan, Clark's stomach decided to growl. 

Attuned to the faintest sounds, having lived with the master of stealth of a decades, the butler turned with a greeting, not surprised to find their guest on the doorstep. "Would you like to have your breakfast in the kitchen or to be served elsewhere?" Alfred prompted. He poured a cup of the freshly prepared herbal tea before serving breakfast.

"I would prefer to stay here," Clark admitted, gratefully accepting the drink. He was gradually getting used to the surroundings and immediately moving into another larger room didn't feel right. The kitchen, set with a round table, had a cozy atmosphere. 

Alfred must have noticed the guest's discomfort and avoided calling for more formality, which dictated them to move to a dining room. 

Clark appreciatively dug into a generous pile of eggs, juicy tomatoes and crispy bacon. The nausea must have been linked to his nerves because it was gradually disappearing. Clark tried to maintain some semblance of manners without wolfing down the entire meal. 

"There are also roast pork and lamb sandwiches should the meal be insufficient," Alfred cleared his throat like he was debating whether to add the next phrase. "You should be eating for two, Mr Kent." 

Clark put down his fork, regarding the butler wordlessly. His arm wrapped around his stomach instinctively to protect it. A part of him knew that keeping this a secret from Alfred would have been impossible. He hoped it wasn't Bruce who shared that knowledge because he wanted to work up the courage to confess rather than having someone else do it for him.

"Master Bruce asked for my grandmother's traditional tea recipe that soothed her pregnancy symptoms," Alfred explained, protecting his charge from the unwarranted suspicion. "He also remodelled a bedroom, insisting that you should stay with us." 

Remodelling was a lot of trouble. Clark noted that his bedroom looked a little brighter in comparison with the rest of the interior. A little smile tugged the corners of his lips pleased that Bruce was so kind to him. "Thank you for being discreet. I trust Mr Wayne's confidant," Clark told him.

"Anyone from the Wayne family can rely on me, including yourself," Alfred voiced, somewhat perturbed by the conversation getting sentimental. "It would certainly be good for this household to entertain another Wayne heir. Please let me know what I can do to make you more comfortable."

Holding a spatula in one hand and a napkin in another, the butler froze stiff as a rolling pin as their guest rose and impulsively wrapped his arms around him. Like it was a struggle with the gravity pulling down his arm, Alfred patted their guest on the back awkwardly.

"I can hear the child's heartbeat already!" Clark shared, trying and most assuredly failing to steady the overabundance of enthusiasm. 

"I am grateful you are willing to share something this important with me," Alfred responded.

Their guest once again smiled shyly. No wonder his master was affected by such a pleasant smile. 

Clark resumed his seat. Thanks to the kind care, he was well enough to return to his work soon. The reporter had no intention of abandoning his job. Now that he felt better, Clark missed the place bustling with news and activity. He really wanted to get back to it. 

Alfred was a very mannerly gentleman. Reaching an understanding with him put Clark a little bit more at ease. Living with Bruce Wayne wasn't going to be so intimidating after all. Clark figured he could slowly get used to it.


	16. Chapter 16

Turned out that 'living with Bruce Wayne' had been far too generous an assessment. It was more like living with Alfred and the squirrels for company in a magical castle where his needs, such as food appearing out of nowhere, were fulfilled on a whim without a sign of their host. 

Am I being avoided? Clark asked the butler after a week of waiting for the hide and seek to end. Receiving a politely phrased excuse on the master’s behalf, Clark decided to use his Saturday and get a conversation out of his elusive host. 

It was easier said than done when he approached the dusky skyscraper dominating the Gotham’s center like an impenetrable fortress. The main entrance was blocked by the black suits, expecting their owner’s explicitly written invitation. They did not care for the pesky reporters marring their doorstep. They sent the quirky journalist in an ill fitting suit on his merry way with a menacing growl in between them demonstrating the knowledge of a fewer words than his friend's pet parrot. 

For once, Clark shared Lois’ righteous indignation at having his way barred into a restricted area, however, the other journalists didn’t have the benefit of the superpowers that helped him get into an elevator and travel to the top floor. The main obstacle still lay ahead in form of a secretary desk with a woman who had her hair set in a bun without a single strand out of order commanding the post. The lenses of her glasses glittered like two formidable sentinels who had seen many daredevils kicked down the long stairway. Clark put on his most earnest smile to look nothing like those troublemakers and respectfully approached the desk. 

Good afternoon, Miss. I’m Clark Kent from the Daily Planet. Mr Wayne…”

The second elevator opened, admitting one of the security guards whose predatory stare instantly landed on the trespasser. “Hey, aren’t you that guy we just kicked out?!” he shouted.

“I'm terribly sorry,” Clark moved towards the control panel past the secretary’s barring hands, who was fairly close, just not quick enough to compete with the super speed, and flipped the com switch. 

“Mr Wayne, this is Clark Kent… Ouch!” he yelped as befitting of the reporter whose arm got wrung and a guy resembling a bulldozer smashed his face against the desk. 

“Thank you, Mr Johnson. You may release our visitor,” an authoritative voice with a hint of anger concealed beneath a cordial exterior commanded. 

The bulldozer released the victim not without giving him a stink eye for sneaking past the security, clearly wishing to interrogate him. 

“My apologies, Mr Kent. I have forgotten to inform the staff about our interview.” 

Looking appropriately affronted, the journalist gathered his tattered bag that was dropped on the floor during the confrontation and followed the billionaire into his office. Their shoulders nearly touched when he brushed past. Bruce jumped back, swinging the door shut harder than necessary. 

“Am I that repulsive?” When Clark was preparing for this conversation, he came up with the exact questions. None of them were this one. Baiting someone you deemed blunt with an inquiry you did not want an answer to because the response was likely to be negative, invited pain. The words came out subdued with a hint of misery. His fingers sunk into the bag's shoulder strap as he fought an urge to slump. “You flinch from my every touch like I have a disease,” he continued. “Is this because you disdain me after…” 

“Stop it!”

The violence of that exclamation made Clark flinch, forcing him to look into the dark knight’s haunted eyes where danced the anger like an ember light. 

“Stop pretending that everything is fine! Strip away that all-forgiving, let’s work everything out for the good of the team, persona. My actions were criminal. I cannot believe you’d want to hug and shake hands with someone who violated you. I don’t believe my presence wouldn’t be a test of endurance. You must despise me.”

There was anger poisonous and destructive. It was aimed inward rather than at him, Clark realised. Guilt. Condemnation. They’ve been clawing at another man’s soul and he noticed so late. 

“Those you refer to, obsessively seek pleasure at the expense of tearing down another person's body and dignity. You’re nothing like them,” said Clark. “Nothing.” The protesting gesture filled with vehemence crashed against his calm surety like waves against a mountainside. “Tell me, what would have happened to me had you not stepped in, had you done nothing?” 

There were no words. A flicker of wrath aimed at the past enemies was all the proof Superman needed. 

“You’re inviting me to condone an action that injured you to help me. I cannot. All I feel is sadness because you got hurt.” 

Now that he knew what to search for, Clark saw the torment and an overwhelming guilt, but also a faint echo of hope desperately fought like having it was deadly as it surely would be whisked away. How was he going to break that wall of mistrust and prove his sincerity? 

“I’m about to do something,” he said. “Don’t be afraid.” 

There was a scowl at the ridiculous implication that Batman would be rattled by anything Superman was capable of inflicting on him with the dark knight remaining rooted to the exact spot where he stood since their conversation started. The expression filled with defiance turned into an unreadable mask as Clark took a tentative step towards him and another until no more than a palm’s length separated the pair. A raw sincerity in the blue eyes begged Bruce to stay and accept the hands slowly coming to rest on his shoulders. 

“You’re right. It’s not fine. It’s not fine that you’re forced to flee your home because I’m there,” Clark said gently. “Because I haven’t told you – I do not fear your touch. I do not want you to avoid me.”

Warmth and compassion surged from the reporter as he pulled Bruce Wayne against his chest and wrapped his arms around the tense figure. Clark didn’t hold him tight, allowing the man to escape, but Bruce didn’t. His flailing heartbeat was akin to a spooked bat. Clark didn’t want to expose the night creature by tossing it into light. It was about mending a wound before sheltering it in blissful darkness.

“Please know, I would have given you my permission to do what was necessary had I been conscious. It might be late, but you have my consent just like you have my trust – always.” 

The vigilante did not return the embrace. He grabbed onto Clark’s arm, clutching the biceps in a vice grip like it was a lifeline, his knuckles whitening. The slightest shudder coursed through his body.

“You truly aren’t resentful,” Bruce whispered, his voice rough with the suppressed emotions and so welcome. “I cannot comprehend, I can only accept you.” 

Neither moved for the longest time, shutting out the world behind the armoured skyscraper windows that madly raced past like it was afraid to miss something integral, and in that rush lost the essence of life it so wished to enjoy, while the pair had it right there in a single moment. The shadows around them grew longer, the eyeless witnesses to a forging bond. 

“Please come home tonight,” Clark implored. 

His heart jumped in triumph when Bruce allowed the smallest nod.

"There is a café down the street," said Bruce. "We should talk." 

The secretary bore the journalist with an interrogative stare, wondering what was so important about the undistinguishable persona who prompted her boss to leave early. The security outside the building with effort cracked their yawning jaws shut. They shot Clark an unfriendly glare with him feeling sorry for them in return. While he and Bruce talked, low clouds crowded the skyscraper rooftops and covered the city with a miserable misty curtain. 

Instead of the sky, Clark should have been looking under his feet where lay the slippery tiles. They glittered duly in the murky city lights. Clark registered that he was falling when it would have looked too suspicious to recover with flight under two critical sets of eyes. Rather than stone breaking his fall, he was caught in a firm embrace that smelled of expensive cologne. Bruce didn't comment, patiently waiting for him to recover. Clark stayed in the safety of that embrace a little longer than necessary, clutching onto a leather coat against which the rain drops and wind beat in futility. Stepping away from the bodily warmth, he hadn't been able to suppress a shiver.

A wide rimmed umbrella snapped open. They were both at the office, yet Bruce noticed the weather and prepared, while he had not. The reporter's blue suit was getting soaked quickly. 

"Hold this," the vigilante passed the umbrella to his companion before shrugging off his coat and wrapping it around Clark's shoulders. 

The reporter was about to protest and then reconsidered, unwilling to squabble when they had important matters to discuss. A bitter gust of wind made him grateful for protection. Rather than reclaiming his umbrella, Bruce took Clark's elbow, gaining a fractional protection from the rain.

"It really is slippery," he offered an explanation, leading them down the treacherously glittering steps. 

On the sidewalk, he steered Clark around the puddles, while waddling through them himself ruthlessly like they were beneath consideration. Bruce knew Gotham weather too well and seemed immune to it. Their shoulders kept brushing as they walked under the shared umbrella. 

The café wasn't far. The appetizing aromas preceded the cozy shop. They stepped into the carpeted depths, folding the umbrella like a couple of castaways with the water trails dripping from their clothes. Bruce removed the weather beaten coat that grew soaked and heavy from Clark's shoulders. 

There were at least thirty pastries greeting the customers with the perfectly baked delight. Normally, Clark preferred fruit. He had taken a greater liking to sweets after the Remus Five mission. Upon finding out about the pregnancy, he stopped eating them entirely. Cakes weren't healthy and he didn't have any particularly strong cravings for them. The tempting display, however, was calling him to indulge. There was the accomplishment of finally being able to reach out to Bruce and that mission left him a bit tired. Like his school friend Lara believed, all things sweet and sugary were dreadfully bad for the pants size and a balm to a stressed soul. 

Clark ordered a fruit pastry, generously covered with the fresh kiwis and blueberries, as well as a slice of chocolate mousse. A strawberry cheesecake kept catching his eye. Clark ignored it, drawing a line on gluttony. His soul wasn't that battered. 

Bruce ordered a cup of strong espresso. They chose a table by the fireplace. The café was nearly empty with a few customers purchasing take outs after work to bring home to their families. The leather armchair was comfortable when Bruce pulled one out for him. 

"You're prone to cold," Bruce didn't ask to confirm his observation, stating a matter of fact. "Are any of your other powers affected?" 

"I haven't lost them. An occasional fluctuations would be most accurate to describe it. Sometimes the flight isn't there or I have trouble seeing through walls. Some things haven't changed. My skin remains resilient, which I'm afraid Mr Pennyworth may have noticed this morning."

Bruce leaned back in his chair, quirking an inquisitive eyebrow that asked what trouble he had gotten into this time. 

"I cut myself while making a sandwich. The chef knife became as blunt as a pencil. I sharpened it, but it's noticeable since he does it differently." 

"Oh dear. That's a family heirloom passed to Alfred by his great-grandfather."

"And I've ruined it!" Clark looked appropriately horrified until he noticed that Bruce was hiding a smirk. "Very funny! I have taken that comment seriously!" 

"Gullibility is a trait that needs to be kept in check," Bruce drawled out.

"I suppose instead everyone should walk around with the smoke bombs tucked into their shirt cuffs!"

Shooting him a silencing glare, Bruce adjusted the cufflinks that in fact were what Superman spotted them to be. 

Pleased with the observation, Clark took a bite out of his pastry. It was an ideal blend of cream and fruit. A little smudge got caught in the corner of his mouth. Clark licked it off and realised that his companion was watching his lips alertly. 

"If you are subjected to cold, then what about the heat?" the vigilante disrupted the thought about his staring.

"You mean what may happen in a fire? I'm not sure. I haven't tried sticking my hand into one."

Bruce muttered something under his nose that resembled 'small mercy.' The dark knight twitched, barely restraining from slapping Clark's hand away when the hero placed his hand above the candle on their table and gradually lowered it into the flame. There was a ticklish sensation with the flames licking his fingers. 

The dark knight was struggling with the next question. A physical discomfort could be solved by buying a scarf. The emotions weren't so easily fixed and he didn't favour getting entangled in their outbursts. 

"Do you feel threatened because you aren't able to rely on your powers one hundred percent?" he asked reluctantly.

"Not much. It shouldn't be a serious problem since I'm not planning to take many risks in the nearest future." Idleness was more of a sore spot than the power loss. Superman didn't wish to dwell on it. "Parasite drained my powers once. It's not shocking, given the previous experiences. Not to mention, the powers haven't manifested until I was a teenager. I lived without them and caught plenty of bruises and colds as a little kid if not more. My immune system was adapting to Earth viruses for a number of years." Him growing stronger was a monument to Martha Kent's patience who sat with her son through his illnesses armed with raspberry jam and love. "Inconvenienced is probably a better word than threatened. I have forgotten what it's like remembering to wear warm socks. I bought a coat for disguise without caring whether it was truly warm or not as long as it looked it. Turns out, most of my wardrobe isn't weather appropriate. It keeps slipping my mind, such as today, to dress properly because I'm not used to thinking about it."

Having explained sufficiently, Clark paused for a last bite of the chocolate mousse. He made short work of the treats even when one took a missing lunch into account. Too bad the plate emptied so fast. The waiter appeared to take it away and a fresh cup of tea along with a slice of strawberry cheesecake was placed in front of him. Clark looked up questionably. He didn't remember ordering it.

"Humour me," Bruce confessed. "I'm sick of seeing a multitude of bored, yawning faces all day. You're the only person who looks happy while eating these sweets." 

"I thought you favoured gloom and brooding," Clark pointed out.

"I prefer being unique and keeping myself separate of the grey masses," Bruce drawled out, startling a chuckle from his companion. 

Clark picked up his fork and ventured a bite. "That's not fair," he sighed. "I was hoping this was mediocre. It's sinfully good." 

The reporter wasn't sure, he thought he saw something gentle flicker in those steel eyes. Just as quickly it was gone, leaving him trembling inside. 

"You must be questioning why I've asked you to stay with me," the vigilante spoke up like this thought was on his mind since the start of their conversation. "I want you to know that it really is important for me to keep you safe. I cannot promise to be a good shoulder to cry on, however, I will do my best to take care of your needs." 

"Thank you for telling me," Clark didn't hide behind a cup of tea as much as the confession was threatening to raise heat to his cheeks. He looked up sincerely and then ventured a self-depreciating smile. "I'm afraid I'll be the judge, nonetheless, when it comes to your shoulder." 

"The emotions are getting out of control that bad?" The corners of that finely sculpted mouth twitched in amusement. 

"I wouldn't call it bad," said Clark, "just different and needs adjusting to. In a way, this is much like the awaking powers. I've always had good hearing. When the range of it extended rapidly, it was overwhelming until I learned to filter the sounds. At present, my emotions are extended as well. They run much deeper, almost in a spiritual sense and along with it the world perception changes because I'm more sensitive. Because it's natural for everyone to have doubts and fears, the stress is much harder to bring under control when it's amplified. I could be hurt by something which otherwise I would brush off. At the same time, these feelings extend to the good things as well. There is a lot of beauty in the world. Being touched by it in a different, more significant way is an enlightening experience. I'm happy to have it," somewhat shy of revealing so much, he added with a note of humour. "Besides, this cheesecake tastes twice as good as it normally does. I couldn't have missed out on this opportunity." 

"Then another slice must be recommended for further research," Bruce suggested.

"I shouldn't have eaten even this one," Clark exclaimed a bit more excitedly than necessary because it was extremely tempting. 

Their interaction was turning out surprisingly candid. He hadn't expected Bruce to tease him a little as the conversation gradually moved towards the casual topics. Listening to the dark knight's voice, Clark reclined in his armchair. The raindrops were sleepily drumming against the cafe's windows. He was content and really full, having eaten two slices of cheesecake. The guilt for this small indulgence was kindly absent. It must have been washed away by the rain. His eyelids kept dropping and the café was drifting out of focus. 

The reporter was vaguely aware of being gently nudged awake to get up with Bruce's arm wrapped around his waist and guided outside. They crossed the sidewalk in two steps towards a black limousine waiting for them where he was bundled inside. Clark remembered placing his head onto a broad shoulder and Bruce not pushing him away. There was a light brush of the lips against his temple, which he must have imagined before drifting into peaceful sleep.


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes! I'm so happy I've been able to get an extra update written for the holiday! I really wanted to get something done to celebrate with. 
> 
> I also want to thank everyone who awarded all these awesome kudos, reviews and bookmarks to my fic. I've noticed the kudos went over two hundred. Wow! It's amazing that so many people are reading this! XD
> 
> HAPPY HALLOWEEN EVERYONE!
> 
> If you say Boo! to my fic today, I'll be taking that as a compliment! 
> 
> //wacked by a broom 
> 
> huhu

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Judging by Alfred’s approving countenance, their guest did something right. So much so, that invading the kitchen each morning and thus upsetting the tradition of having breakfast in the dining room was granted amnesty. The delicious morsels were left on the kitchen table throughout the day, such as a bowl filled to the brim with a wide variety of fruit. 

Clark pulled the tempting dish closer in delight only to be bitterly disappointed like a little kid who sunk their teeth into an exceptional treat expecting a world and discovered that it was made out of a scratchy plastic. 

Alfred regarded their guest with a silent question from the counter where he was polishing the kitchen utensils. He studied critically the chef knife.

“I’m sorry for making a mess,” Clark nodded at a couple of bitten apples, a peeled orange with one missing slice and an unfinished plum. He was feeling odd. There was a churching sensation in his stomach and his skin was nearly itchy. “I desperately want to eat something. When I do, everything tastes terrible.” He opted for the grapes, finding no solution. 

“I believe these are commonly referred to as the food cravings,” the butler pointed out.

“Don’t people usually know what it is?” Clark wasn’t sure what was wounding him up, only that his body demanded it.

“Your heritage might have something to do with your cravings,” Alfred speculated.

“That's must be so. I intended to check the information crystals at the Fortress of Solitude, but I had to delay the trip." In truth, Clark hadn't felt well enough to travel north, but he was up for the trip at present. "Thank you, Mr Pennyworth. You’re always a wise council.” 

“You’re quite welcome. You may thank me additionally by allowing me to make sandwiches for you each morning," the butler hinted, prompting their guest to look down into the fruit bowl guiltily. "Have a safe trip, Mr Kent."

The trip to his secret hideout was far chillier than Superman remembered. Blowing on his hands for warmth with the small puffs forming in the air, he raised the temperature several degrees before approaching the crystals he linked into the fortress computers. 

“Greetings, Kal-El. Do you seek more knowledge about the Krypton culture?” 

How well were the crystals able to preserve his father’s voice? Every time Kal-El heard that placating timbre reaching out to him from the past there was the duality of loss and gratitude for having what little connection he had left with his biological family. 

“I would like to learn about the childbearing practices on Krypton,” Clark requested. Since his inquiry had to be more specific, he added. “What were the most common food cravings experienced by our people?” 

“It could have been anything grown or cooked on our home world. I can tell you more about out family, for example,” the crystal voice announced after accessing the database and analysing. “Your mother was very fond of kumaivas when she carried you.” 

These were precious memories rather than raw data because the voice obtained a tender lilt touched by a gentle humour in acceptance of his wife’s mild quirks during that period.

The word sounded pleasant and deliciously rolled off the tongue. 

“What are kumaivas?”

A three dimensional projection formed above one of the consoles. It was a fruit about as large as a fist that had a light brown skin and resembled an orange. The white letters describing its composition appeared above the console. It looked so tasty. Kal-El’s mouth watered at the sight, elated that he finally figured it out and instantaneously dejected by craving what couldn't be found on Earth. 

“Kumaivas are fruit grown in sub-tropical climate that have a quick ripen cycle,” the crystal voice lectured. “The closest equivalent found on Earth is an apple.” 

Kal-El’s spirits lifted. He always liked apples. Earth cultivated variety of this fruit. Possibly, one could serve as a substitute. He could try them all! The research prospect seemed exciting. 

“You’ve mentioned quirks,” Kal-El prompted. “There must have been certain behaviour common to our people, which my mother displayed, aside from the endless desire to cry.”

“It’s not as dramatic as you believe,” Jor-El chuckled. “Some of the habits are cute. I was more than happy to oblige. Our people anticipate the child’s arrival so much, it makes them compulsive cuddlers. They have the need to snuggle. While I was most pleased to hold your mother close, I cannot say I was delighted when she tried to hug strangers who may have liked it too much given how beautiful she is.”

A smile lit up Kal-El’s heart at his father’s possessiveness. The tentative glances his parents shared when he first unlocked the spaceship and saw them have travelled through time undiminished in their tenderness. 

“Kal-El, since you ask, I wonder whether you are anticipating a child," Jor-El spoke up. "Should this be true, please be patient and caring with your partner. I cannot say exactly how humans might be affected, but our people are most vulnerable during the pregnancy and can be very silly as well. I once got delayed by several hours at work and was greatly remiss in not telling Lara. She had hiccups for a day because she thought I left her,” grief and self-reproach emerged in that crystal voice. “That doubt appeared even though she knew I love her so I would have travelled to her with the wind had I been burned to ashes. Your partner will need a lot of reassurance and physical comfort as well.” 

Did it mean he needed reassurance specifically from his partner or those close to him such as friends and relatives could help? Kal-El didn’t think Batman was going to be thrilled to have a hug starving personal clinging onto him. Would he tolerate it? It had been a brief moment after their conversation at the café when Bruce didn't seem too against it when the reporter fell asleep on him in the car.

“You misunderstand.” Even though this was a computer, Clark had to swallow a lump of nerves before confessing. “Father, my partner is not pregnant. I am.”

The jitters threatened to reduce him into a wreck in a few seconds that took the computer to process the information and then the monitors lit up brilliantly with the images of Krypton playing out on them. The crystal mountainside ridges glimmered with the streaks of a red sunlight bouncing off them to create the harmonious tunes announcing life and the majestic cities rose towards the sky to hail their civilization. These landscapes floated around the son of Krypton and they sparked with joy. 

“Blessings to you and your child. You do your family and your people proud.”

Jor-El’s soul must have been programmed into the computer to respond to this announcement. This was how the great scientist would have celebrated his first grandchild and it didn’t matter to him who conceived it. The son of Krypton laughed with the music filling the Fortress of Solitude, the harmonious tune caressing the air bitter-sweet. 

The confession reminded Clark that he hadn’t informed his adoptive parents and how much he dreaded doing so. While Jonathan and Martha were most loving and accepting, it was traditional in their small corner of the world for the partners to have a wedding and raise kids together. Clark didn’t have a husband he could introduce to his family, which was poor enough without the horrific explanation how the child was conceived. It was considered a great dishonour to become pregnant without being married. Clark didn’t have the nerve either to lie to his parents by softening the truth, nor was he able to tell them bluntly. Gaining their disapproval, however vague, terrified him. Where would his family’s tolerance end before they rejected him? 

Sometimes Kal-El didn’t notice at all, while other days he was very much an alien cast into the human world. Standing amongst the glowing monitors that projected the fragments of a destroyed civilization, he was equally lost and separated from the love and kindness of the world beyond by the bitterly shining walls and the ice fields stretching beyond the Fortress of Solitude. 

The following evening caught him in the kitchen facing a messy stack of the thirty two apples and six oranges. Clark had an interesting day when Alfred generously agreed to step away from his regular household responsibilities in favour of showing him the best and busiest market areas in Gotham where they sought out as many apple varieties as possible, while the Metropolis resident used this opportunity to study the local behaviour. 

The populace manner was certainly not for the slowpokes to thrive in. It was brisk and efficient. Rather than shady as associated with the city, there was an undercurrent of nobility and a fierce set of loyalties maintained for the better or worse. Even in broad daylight the city held a mystical charm. Clark was disappointed when the markets began to close, gradually transforming the stalls into large armadillos that curled up into the iron barred balls as the city took on a much more menacing shape with the hour ticking into late dinner. This is when Alfred insisted on their return to the Wayne Manor like they had to head back to the safe dominion. 

This adventure had an anti-climactic ending as Clark regarded in near despair a pile of fruit, cut up for him to taste one slice of each. Some apples were awful, some had a refreshing flavour. Nothing from the selection gave Clark the satisfaction that it was the exact taste he was looking for. The Kryptonian dropped his head onto the table. He wanted a kumaiva so bad it was tempting to sink his teeth into his arm. 

"I find the walls to be far more convenient than tables for banging the head on. They're taller, so you wouldn't need to hunch."

Clark nearly jumped out of his skin upon hearing Bruce's voice next to his shoulder. In a dove grey shirt perfectly trimmed to his figure, he looked the usual fetching perfection. 

"Good evening to you as well," Clark told him, not quite managing to look more pleasant and cheerful even if he wanted to. "I take it your day was far more productive than mine." 

"I take it the Metropolis villains are trying to poison the city apple supply and you've volunteered to test which seller is guilty?" 

In spite of the banter, there was a serious undercurrent. Often at a loss how to read the vigilante, Clark wondered if this was some Batman method of asking whether he was all right or looking for a way to find out what was going on without sounding like a nosy neighbour. It would have killed him to simply ask, 'What are you doing?' or 'Are you ok?'

"No, just me randomly risking to get poisoned because the computer at the Fortress of Solitude doomed me with the news that my food craving involves kumaivas, something that no longer exists in the universe. I suppose, I can try eating these as a substitute," Clark pointed at the two apples he set aside that were approximately what he was looking for. "At least they don't taste like mould or burned rubber unlike majority of the pile." 

"Delicious," the sarcasm could have poisoned the planet's cockroach population as Bruce took note of a pile Clark set aside as good. "Earth cuisine must be a real treat to the Kryptonian taste buds." 

"It's not like that. It's just that some foods taste strange lately. Normally, I have no problem with the cuisine."

Wayne gave him a disbeliever look, which expressed how the friendly Boy Scout liked poison spitting tarantulas too. 

"In any case, we have bigger problems than your culinary preferences," Bruce announced, dropping a Gotham newspaper in front of the guest with one of the columns highlighted. 

Looking at the article that wound up Batman so, Clark suppressed a jab of disappointment because this was the reason Bruce sought him out. It wasn't for his company even though as promised the dark knight stopped avoiding him. While the newspaper was a decent one, the reporter in charge of the article had a trashy writing style and used to the full potential an opportunity to get attention. There was a misinterpreted picture of them on the steps with Clark holding onto his companion after nearly falling. The writer blew out of proportion a very long lasting visit of a Daily Planet reporter to the world famous billionaire Bruce Wayne. The implication as to what the pair was doing during that supposed 'interview' made him blush uncontrollably.

"Just how closely are you watched by media?" Clark asked. He was usually on the other end of things, digging up information on the suspects. He dealt with the criminal element and rarely got into private affairs like love life, doing which never felt right. Clark hadn't considered before what it would be like to be associated with someone famous in his civilian life.

"Usually, they got more sense than hounding me in the business sector, given there is no need with the far more interesting shows put up during the playboy parties. Still, the damage is done. There is no way to avoid being seen together again since it won't be possible to do everything separately." 

Bruce drummed his fingers on the tabletop, contemplating what to do. With each tap Clark felt worse. He should have known that living together would be impossible. The dark knight was probably thinking of a polite way to tell his guest to return to the Metropolis apartment and make up an article about their pretended interview to thwart suspicion. 

"I suppose we have no choice. There will be a party at the Wayne Manor in three days. During the evening, to avoid the unnecessary questions why someone working in Metropolis would be often found in Gotham, I will introduce you as my new boyfriend." 

Bruce spoke up like his mind was made up on the matter. Clark stared at the billionaire in dismay, not quite sure whether he feared this proposition being a joke or his willingness to support the idea, even though he had never been comfortable with pretence. What to say? Should he agree? He wasn't sure.


	18. Chapter 18

"What?!" Clark blurted out foremost, unable to sort out his feelings instantly. He wished the question came out more eloquently than in one word and not as a high pitched squeak. 

"Problem?" Bruce folded his arms defensively over his chest, ready to take offence.

"No!" Clark exclaimed. "I don't mind being your... or rather introduced as... of course you aren't not attractive so I wouldn't want to..." the reporter clammed his mouth shut, ordering his thoughts into a few simple sentences. For someone who had an expressive way with the pen, he sure couldn't string together three words semi-intelligently around the billionaire. 

"It's just that when the two people are together, everyone can see they have a special bond." Like he found his fingers sinking into the table edge fascinating, Clark stared at them. "The couple demonstrates romantic behaviour. They look at each other a certain way. They're touching and... k-kissing..." he was floundering like a fish out of the water. "When we are at the same place you're always putting as much distance as possible between us and we don't behave like a couple in love. No one would believe us."

Clark dared to peek at the dark knight who regarded him contemplatively. At least Bruce wasn't making fun of him. It was flattering the hero considered the idea of being romantically linked with him even if Bruce often found him aggravating. While Clark wasn't any good at pretending, a small part of him longed for a relationship and whispered all sorts of ideas that maybe this acting could grow into something more. 

"Fair enough," the vigilante acknowledged. "We'll have to practice our interaction to make it believable. We’ve had other romantic relationships. How hard could it be to imitate one? Three days should be enough to prepare for the party."

Practice? Much to his dismay, Bruce motioned them into the living room with a clear intention of putting his plan into action tonight. Clark’s heart was in his throat when the billionaire opened the bar to pour two drinks for them, one scotch and a glass of orange juice. The vigilante’s fingertips imprinted on the foggy glass surface that slowly faded as he passed the drink to Clark.

“Let’s try simple communication like sitting down together.” Transforming into his playboy persona, Bruce dropped onto the couch nimbly as a predatory cat and leaned against the pillows. “Take a seat,” he purred the invitation.

Clark perched up on the very edge, acutely aware of a long leg stretched close enough to brush his calf had the couch tilted even a little bit that prompted the Kryptonian to sit very still nearly holding his breath. How often had he dreamt of sitting beside Bruce and being able to look at him unobstructed? Clark wanted to memorise every eyelash shadowing the passions in those aquamarine eyes, delight in the miniscule changes of the fine facial lines that dictated the multitude of moods, and drink in greedily the sight when those sculpted lips parted to take a sip from the glass leaving a faint imprint on the rim. 

Yet, Clark couldn’t tear his eyes away from the sunny liquid splashing inside his glass that cheerfully clashed with his jittering nerves. He was too tense to even take a sip. Was he supposed to say something or enjoy the atmosphere silently? He hoped it was the later given his tongue-tied state. There was no better line coming to his mind other than, ‘what colour do you like?’ Whatever they were doing, they weren’t doing it right. Clark guessed that under the playful persona, the dark knight was gradually losing his patience.

"You're a terrible actor,” Bruce snapped at last. “Have you learned this shy little girl crush routine in Smallville high school?" 

“I’m not used to you behaving this way,” Clark offered an excuse that seemed to mollify the vigilante somewhat who regarded him silently and then gracefully slid closer. 

“Lean back against the couch,” Bruce prompted. While it wasn’t an order, a convincing note in that hushed voice beckoned his companion to comply. Clark sunk into a half-embrace as Bruce leaned forward and rested his arm across the back of the couch, not quite touching the reporter's back, but coming intimately close. “Put your arms around me.” 

Clark placed his cup on the coffee table. Having no other excuse to delay, he returned to the previous position. To hold the man he had dreamt about, bring him closer and lean into the body honed to perfection by many years of an intensive training was a complete disaster rolling towards revealing his attraction. Lacking any social grace, Clark put his arms around his supposed lover’s waist, keeping Bruce nearly at a full arm's length.

"You aren't holding a lamp post," Bruce muttered, but the words lacked bite. “Look at me.”

Unable to resist the hypnotic quality of that voice, Clark did, discovering how alarmingly close they were.

“Relax,” Bruce soothed, raising his hand to trace the strong jaw line, rough fingertips electrifying against the unprotected skin. 

It was tempting to lean into the caress and close his eyes to savour the tingling sensation left in the wake of the tracing fingertips. Clark wanted to mirror the action and learn the texture of the two days stubble on that stubborn chin and brush his thumb against the cheekbone no longer concealed by a mask. He could place a hand on the nape of the dark knight’s neck to guide them closer until he could taste…

"Kiss me." 

It was Bruce who said it. Clark looked at him at a loss, unwilling to contradict. Whenever they were this close he felt like an autumn leaf uncontrollably carried by a strong gust of wind, while Bruce had the ability to master every breath, every step of the way. Being held in the other’s invisible web of power was both thrilling and caused his head to spin. As Clark leaned closer, his mind frantically searched for a good place to kiss in mid-motion. Anything but those alluring lips. Touching them was bound to provoke an embarrassing reaction. The jaw or a cheek, perhaps, but they were so close to those lips where a most innocent kiss could have sinfully led to a lot more. 

Still undecided, his lips landed in the middle of his partner’s forehead in the swiftest, barely noticeable motion and Clark immediately pulled back. 

"What the Hell was that?" Bruce withdrew sharply, searching for the signs of mockery. His companion looked dead serious. "The Little Red Riding Hood kisses her granny with less chastity than this!" he bristled with Superman colouring like a wayward paintbrush threw pink hues all over his cheeks. “We aren’t practicing for the children’s fairy tale theatre rehearsal!” 

"Hence you are such a world class kissing aficionado, perhaps, you’d care to demonstrate." 

A flare of temperament hot and dangerous met this challenge. Bruce shifted his arm from the couch to wrap around his partner’s shoulders, aligning their bodies and studying Clark through the hooded eyes. Those eyes seemed to know everything like a thousand twinkling lights shining through the lenses of the murky Gotham skyscraper windows that had overseen countless lovers affirming their passions. These frenzies converged and danced in those blue orbs as Bruce titled his partner's head and his lips parted slightly, in a slow motion descending onto the reporter's mouth. Clark wasn’t sure whether he was meant to wait or meet the other half way, eventually choosing to lean towards his partner a little too eagerly. 

Bruce drew back sharply with the barest wince as they bumped their foreheads. His annoyance increased exponentially with the Kryptonian not feeling a thing from what was going to manifest as a hefty lump on his forehead. 

"Want me to kiss it better?" Clark asked with an apologetic smile. 

Bruce growled, grabbing fistfuls of Clark’s shirt and yanked the startled Kryptonian down, crushing their mouths together aggressively. Being possessed by those lips, kneading and demanding, was akin to being caught in the grip of sirocco. Their emotions surged like a whirlwind. Clark yielded to the assault, parting his lips and allowing a tongue to slide across his teeth and delve into his mouth. It was not teasing or nipping, just raking raw, seeking outlet for the long suppressed desires that were tearing the barriers asunder. 

Throwing caution to the wind, Clark returned the kiss with the matching fervour where their mouths moulded and there was no need for the air with the rising passions playing substitute for the life-force. There were hands, searing against his skin sliding under his shirt and a body atop of him guiding him down onto the pillows. He needed that heat like the sun and arched towards it with a throaty moan, welcoming what was not meant to be. Next instance he was released and the moment shattered as the pair broke apart. 

As swiftly as it started, their kiss ended. The weight pinning him down disappeared, leaving Clark sprawled on the couch and flustered until he became painfully aware of another person in the room. Clark jumped to his feet guiltily like the couch transformed into a hot poker, aimlessly smoothing his shirt and tucking it back where it properly should have been. 

"Oh, Mr Pennyworth, we were just... umm..."

"It has come to our attention that convincing the public about us being a couple has become a necessity," Bruce interrupted smoothly Clark’s stammering from the opposite end of the couch like they hadn’t been doing anything more than discussing the latest weather report. 

“A very wise precaution,” Alfred approved without batting an eyelash. "Would you care to practice complimenting each other as well given how the verbal communication is an integral part of a romantic relationship? I volunteer to assist you,” the butler proceeded without a pause before either had a chance to protest and apparently convinced they'd have more trouble with that than the non-verbal interaction. “Mr Kent, would you care to enlighten us what it is you like about Bruce?” he asked like they were at a party surrounded by a horde of a curious acquaintances. 

Leave it to the Kryptonian to take the question very seriously. Clark took a minute to consider his answer thoroughly. That’s why Alfred targeted him first, to corner Bruce into responding. 

“I don’t believe this attraction stems from anything flashy like the dazzling looks, as much as he has them,” Clark pretended they were surrounded by a group of people who would share a fair assessment that the billionaire playboy was in fact hot. “It comes more from an integral trust and the feeling of safety whenever we are together. I know Bruce will always be there when he’s needed the most. When he deeply cares about something, he may not reveal it too easily, but he’ll act and do everything in his power to make it right. I admire his determination and how much good he does for the others."

The people were bound to think he was referring to the multiple charities Bruce Wayne supported, but there was another layer hidden from the public view of Batman saving lives, which only the two of them shared. 

Clark sought Alfred out, questioning whether he said enough. Maybe the butler wasn’t a father to Bruce, but he was as close as family. Having his approval greatly mattered to the hero. He hoped at the very least Alfred respected him. 

"That's a very kind thing to say, Mr Kent," much to his relief the butler approved. 

Bruce knew he was going to be asked next as Alfred turned to him. The Kryptonian looked hopeful as their eyes met. No matter how long he had to come up with something during Clark’s confession, Bruce was still unprepared. Studying the man sitting across, his breath hitched. How could he describe the enchanting eyes that held an entire sky? Except the sky was detached in an isolate magnificence, while Clark breathed warmth and care that melted so many hearts. He could even turn an isolate curmudgeon like the Gotham's dark knight to work by his side, unaware just how many lives were upturned for the better by the force of his kindness and that radiant smile. 

"I think..." Bruce stammered. How could he put it plainly? Whatever he wanted to express held too much pathos. It didn't fit into words. He realised just how long he had been staring at Clark mouth-opened into dead silence and became painfully aware of the ticking floor clock. Waiting. A bird smashed against the mansion window, thinking in the reflection it had seen a partner and flew away disenchanted by a cruel illusion.

"That's all right," Clark interrupted the sizzling torment of anticipation. "One thing I admire about you is honesty. You needn't say anything if you have nothing to say." 

Superman was gone from the room in an instant, floating rather than walking out. Not even an echo of his footsteps was left. Alfred lowered his gaze in disappointment. 

"Well, Master Wayne," the butler searched for a way to express the abysmal failure diplomatically. "You can always try more kissing."


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My imagination ran away this weekend. I've added a piece [Moonlight Also Becomes You](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8522848)  
> ______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Bruce Wayne, he Batman and he Gotham’s airhead playboy, never got nervous. When his knuckles stopped an inch from rapping against his guest’s bedroom door, he attributed the hesitation to the final rehearsal of how they were going to behave before stepping into the illumined by the gilded chandeliers circle of society. Brucey was not the persona the League members were frequently exposed to. Not that he was ashamed of the projected image that occasionally demanded behaviour Batman despised since the heroes were aware of this disguise, however, this had the potential to leave another unpleasant mark on his interaction with Superman in the wake of their poorly ended conversation. They hadn’t an opportunity to talk afterwards, for which Bruce had no one except himself to blame. As much as he was independent of anyone’s opinion, the dark knight wasn’t foolish enough to ruin the respect the heroes obtained for each other through the mutual responsibilities to the world. 

That is how with him still undecided to proceed the door flew open without a knock. 

“Good evening,” Clark greeted, heaving heard him approach the room. 

“Most of the guests have assembled,” the billionaire responded, summoning the reporter to join him with a curt nod. 

With the indistinguishable reporter persona in place, Bruce hadn’t expected his date to look this stunning. While the glasses and the bang, brushed low, were doing their job, the dress code dictated to lose the disfiguring business suit in favour of a tuxedo. The elegant mix of black and white along with the simple cut lines did nothing to deduct from the natural good looks. While the reporter’s clumsiness and ungainly mannerism served as a distraction, these manners weren’t going to emerge until they've joined the crowd. Had anyone looked closely enough, and there was going to be a lot of attention drawn to Clark since he was the enviable Mr Wayne’s date, someone was bound to notice a lot more beyond that clumsy façade. Not all attention in that room was going to be chaste either. 

Before the trouble had a chance to rear its ugly head, Bruce was already tense with knowledge that he’d have to keep another threat off the radar as they entered the dazzling hall that blinded with the stark white tablecloths along the snack tables, the extensive bar ready to offend and offer a brew to accommodate any taste, and the live orchestra entertaining but not intruding on the conversations. The designers had outdone themselves with displays. The interior decorated by the artwork of the prospective artists and local galleries was bound to elicit more interest and financial support than merely hearing about these wonders. All of it awed and spellbound. 

With their emergence into this social stage, the billionaire’s date shrunk. His gesticulation grew angular and sharper like that of a person prone to fidgeting. Experimentally, Bruce placed his hand on the small of Clark’s back and drew much closer, casually letting their shoulders and hips brush with the multitude of openly curious gazes already tracking their progress across the floor. A few cameras flashed, while the reporters whose presence was mandatory at the exhibition, furiously scribed in their notebooks. Plastering a billion dollar smile onto his face, Bruce spun his date around and placed a swift peck onto his lips, noting the smallest shudder with satisfaction. So, Mr Perfect was prone to nervousness too. Clark had attended similar social functions before. Back then it was different as he came armed with a journalist notepad and entirely independent of anyone’s option. Here, he was set up for some heavy criticism. 

For the most part Clark played his part admirably, while Bruce scanned the crowd, avoiding the notorious shark reefs and seeking a safe refuge he could hoist his date on. The billionaire’s presence was already drawing a few of his so called friends whose interrogation was best avoided. Minimising his date’s contact with them was for the best. 

His choice fell on the director of the Gotham Expressionist Museum who partially due to his education maintained some dignity in spite of attending the party as the persona designated to harp for funding. Bruce judged he’d be shrewd enough to be courteous to the boyfriend of a person capable of giving his organisation a lot of money. At the same time, the greying professor projected an intellectual aura to bore many glib predators of out his vicinity. For an inquisitive person like Clark, the professor was bound to provide an entertaining enough conversation. 

Having expertly entangled the pair in a discussion, Bruce slipped away to crusade across the hall, exchanging small pleasantries with the guests and never stopping long enough to be pinned into place. While a conversation was unavoidable, he intended to postpone it as much as possible. Bruce knew he got hounded down when stopping by a bar to grab a topped glass of brandy he heard an ecstatic shriek. 

“Brucey darling!”

Heavily perfumed breasts squeezed against him as a glowing blond assailed the billionaire with a pearly smile of so perfected, they were nearly pinkish, teeth.

“Hello Mindy,” the playboy greeted, acknowledging a group she had in tow with a causal raise of his glass and tempted to gulp down the entire thing in one go just to stop seeing them. Sourly, he had to give up on drinking even a drop, needing all the wits sharp about him. Bruce was exposed to judgement of this group he had the dubious honour of being a prized member of. It primarily consisted of those who got their riches from the previous generation and wasted life for the most part chasing supposedly grand enterprises or living in idleness. 

“I haven’t seen you in a thousand years,” Mindy chimed, referring to their last meeting two months ago. In his opinion it was a hundred years not long enough. 

Bruce squeezed back freely, inwardly cursing the most untimely capture and looking over her shoulder to the other end of the room where the professor got spooked and abandoned the post, nearly covering his eyes in scandalous shame, by a new person dropping in on one of a few decent conversations he had all evening. This left Clark alone and open to getting pawned by the local patroness of the perspective art students. These artists had no names or survivals means, only the talent and handsome bodies to offer in exchange for her favour. 

“A thousand years is about how old this excellent scotch tastes,” Bruce idly responded to the blond, sensing his glass was going to crack had he squeezed it any tighter. “How about I get you a drink?” 

Mrs Foster laughed theatrically at something the reporter told her, which wasn’t that funny judging by his face, and ran a brightly manicured hand over his lapel, adjusting it and letting the nails rake over the shirt beneath the jacket. Didn’t they have any perverted shrews on Krypton who brainwashed the bereft youths with the promises of making names and riches by association at the expense of getting into the wealthy vulture's bed to genetically imbue Clark with some sense of self-preservation? 

“How about I get you a kiss?” A pink pound of lipstick slobbered all over Bruce. 

Apparently no such genes existed because Clark demonstrated all the signs of chivalrously acknowledging an elderly lady the likes of which he helped across the street when he was eight years old. Any oddity he noted, the Boy Scout treated with a respectful indulgence, attributing it to the elderly dementia. 

“Serves your boyfriend right for leaving a date like you all alone,” Mindy giggled and batted her eyelashes at Bruce provocatively as he wiped the traces of her interest off his face with a handkerchief. “Then again, who can keep all of you to themselves? They’d choke.” 

“Especially someone who doesn’t look like he can handle an exposed ankle,” Octavian butted in, leaning his back against the counter and contemplatively swirling a green substance in his glass that resembled a liquid kryptonite as he regarded Wayne’s date. In a grey suit that highlighted the granite harshness in his eyes and accented broad shoulders, Octavian fitted the image of the most desirable bachelor to the cue. “He has this child like charm about him, but why the four eyes, Bruce? Did you want something exotic that doesn’t grow in our parts?"

"I was looking at the attributes other than his glasses," Bruce replied without making any commitment as to what it was.

"I say," Octavian snickered suddenly lighting up with interest like a quirky puzzle he couldn’t solve magically unravelled before him.

Just then the old horse dropped her clutch for the third time and Clark dutifully bent down to get it for her. Mrs Foster flagrantly ogled at the perfectly shaped rear. Octavian stared too with a lecherous smirk twisting his lips, already considering that Wayne once again beat him to a realisation that there was great pleasure in debauching the innocent. One didn’t need to be psychic to read his trail of thoughts, ‘Who cares about the glasses when his face will be buried in the pillow while you pound your cock into that perfectly shaped ass?’ For a moment, Bruce wondered whether he could pass public homicide as a pure accident of someone tripping and impaling their throat on a cocktail pick.

“You always get the nicest things,” Octavian complained. “Least this time I got you beat.”

At this overly arrogant announcement Mindy snapped her glittery lips shut and every single person sharing good laughs stared at them with an intensity of the cats who had a mouse unexpectedly dropped into their circle. Octavian produced a newspaper extract that held the latest stock market statistics on the fashion outlets where his rating rose by the slightest margin above the Wayne industry. 

Damn. Between fighting the giant mutants and settling affairs on the alien worlds, Bruce had forgotten about his uncomplicated plan to get rid of Gloria Game. Even someone as crafty as Batman was running out of excuses that helped him avoid having sex with the hottest supermodel in Gotham who was bent on applying all her charms to get into his bed. Kicking her out of it later, as he learned from the other poor suckers’ experiences, was a chore while she latched on to suck all her suitor’s money, while getting into all of their business and treating her boyfriends as her property. That’s when Bruce made a bet with Octavian that he’d comprise a ludicrous poem about his next date, which presumably was to be Gloria, should his stocks fall lower, estimated and arranged in advance to be. Gloria was supposed to get mad at this asinine love declaration. Brucey was supposed to get soundly slapped in public and deem the burden taken off his shoulders. Except, Gloria did him a favor by breaking her leg in a drunk driving accident and instead of her the billionaire showed up with Clark.

“Since it was in our terms that I’d get to choose the theme for your limerick about your date’s most valuable assets, you better produce the most hideously indecent rhyme about your date’s ass,” Octavian declared much to everyone’s amusement. 

Accompanied by the thunderous hooting that drew public attention, Bruce was dragged across the hall towards his date. His mind swirled, frantically editing out some of the more licentious parts of his composition, but there was only so much he could do. Clark turned to regard the boisterous source of noise that was quite unnerving before he got surrounded by laughter and a carousel of people grabbing him to dump him on the couch before the reporter figured out what was happening. 

"I beg your pardon, this doesn't seem like the best thing to do or the safest," the reporter protested, infirmly making attempts to get free of the web swiftly entangling him. Those feeble gestures were completely unsuccessful. He was ignored as no one cared for the incoherently articulated reasoning.

With a copious amount of alcohol already consumed the merrier this idea seemed, especially since Bruce Wayne never lost a bet. Octavian was never going to pass up the once in a lifetime opportunity to get the reward of besting Bruce Wayne. Small mercy that Mrs Foster was shoved aside in general mayhem of surrounding the reporter and manhandling him onto a couch. The patroness tossed a wrathful glare at the uninhibited bunch of hooligans who tore from her the rightful prey and pursing her lips sauntered away in search of other inexperienced talents. 

Maintaining a frivolous laughter, Bruce considered passing out supposedly from an excess of alcohol as he was dropped onto his date's lap. That train had long departed, however, since he should have acted drunk from the beginning. Clark didn't seem to know what to do with this body dropping onto him out of the blue. The reporter jumped, accidentally making a grab of his date's ass before finding something safer to hold on to. His face was slowly turning crimson and the eyes behind the glasses were bewildered. 

"A poem!" the crowd demanded, every single person expecting either to hear the joke of the evening or indisputably dub their host a windbag who couldn't hold up his part of the bargain.

Bruce imagined the squirrels were slowly gathering around the mansion to throw the pieces of garbage collected from the finest Gotham dumpsters at the dubious poet. The playboy wrapped his arms around his boyfriend's neck. Fuck it. This was Clark's fault anyway for distracting him from everything. Since the end of the world was fashionably late to save him from the imminent humiliation, Bruce steeled his voice into the state of vacuous gaiety and proclaimed. 

"Oh, my Clark is sweet and handsome,  
His butt is nice and round.  
I'd like to give him a wet hiss  
That makes a sloppy sound.  
But, I'm afraid with all this drool  
Gathered everywhere,  
In my haste to get him so,  
I'd slip and fall on my derriere."

'I beg your pardon?' he read the scandalised question as his date tensed with the fakest smile plastered onto his face, while the crowd burst into laughter and approving applause. 

Maybe it was the shame heating up the environment. Sitting on Clark's lap with his arms around him created an illusion of getting cooked inside an oven. The disreputable ode about his arse was hardly conductive in clearing up their misunderstanding. Bruce practically jumped out of his date's arms when Mindy grabbed his elbow, pulling the playboy onto the dance floor as the music style changed to accommodate different tastes.

Stealing a glance back, Bruce knew there was more trouble brewing.


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This song wouldn't quit stalking me. Here be the result. 
> 
> Kudos and bookmarks to Adam Lambert's expressive voice and the song 'Whatya Want From Me.'
> 
> __________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

The experience was disjointing, like getting tossed out on a shore by a tumbling wave that left Clark disoriented in its retreating wake as the song's first accords were struck.

Hey, slow it down  
Whataya want from me

Although that limerick was somewhat amusing in a ridiculous way, the reporter hardly understood, was Bruce mocking him? Even with the glib playboy persona in place it was too petty to be in his character. The doubt nagged nonetheless. While they may have arrived together, it didn’t escape Clark’s attention that Bruce immediately fled his company. The billionaire was willing to talk to anyone as long as they weren’t his date. Bruce hadn’t introduced the reporter to his acquaintances either, which Clark assumed had been the point of their plan. Maybe Bruce was concerned the quirky journalist was too much of a misfit and thought it would be wrong to invite him into that company? Or maybe Bruce hadn't found what to say about him except for turning the complimenting part into a fitting with the playboy persona joke about his... 

The reporter shied from dwelling on how their conversation had ended three days ago because it made him very lonely. Clark had curled up on his bed in his room, telling himself that he was being silly, and fighting an urge to call his parents or Lois without telling them that he was upset, just to have someone to talk to. As kind as they would have been, Clark also realised there was another type of emptiness growing larger and making a gap in his heart day by day that couldn't have been filled with friends. It was the deep rooted desire for finding the right person to build a family with, someone to wake up next to each morning and someone to tell him how their day went. Bruce wasn't interested. He hadn't found one positive thing about him as a person. No... He was being unfair. Batman kept his thoughts too close to himself to assume what he was thinking. But... was it very selfish to hope that someone you were attracted to might say something nice about you? 

Whataya want from me

The confusion was raising a pounding headache in his temples. One moment they would be together threading thin ice and miraculously finding the points of connection to build an incomprehensible bridges out of a black titanium and Kryptonian crystals. That interaction had meaning, casting about them a sense of intimacy. And then Bruce would be gone. They wouldn’t see each other in days, leaving Clark with a sense that he had done something that offended the dark knight. Clark didn’t know what to make of it only that he felt like a straggler who came to the ball uninvited, while Bruce danced with a stunning blond woman surrounded by their friends. The song lyrics played for them echoed the abandoned date’s question.

Yeah, I'm afraid  
Whataya want from me  
Whataya want from me

When Bruce unexpectedly dropped into his lap, the journalist responded with a lot more than dismay. He was surely overreaching by being wounded that what he had felt at this contact was such a fine joke to the other. His face was still flushed. Clark reached for his handkerchief to wipe a bead of sweat from his temple only to discover that he had misplaced it. 

“I believe you’ve lost this.” 

Clark trailed his gaze up an arm towards a person offering to return his possession. The man had a pleasant smile. Compared with the rest of the features his lips were plump, softening an otherwise strict face.

“Got it before it dropped to the floor,” an inking of that smile was making light of what sounded like a romantic gesture. 

As Clark reached out to accept the neatly folded item, the man tipped his hand to let their finger brush. No longer comfortable wiping his face with the handkerchief touched by this person, Clark returned it to his pocket. 

Once upon a time  
I didn't give a damn  
But now here we are  
So whataya want from me

“That was a rowdy interruption. I hope you weren’t too offended by the jest. Personally, you have my apologies since Bruce is too distracted to speak on our behalf. He is rather busy flirting his way around the other half of the room he hadn’t covered yet.”

“Then I will not perceive it as a gesture of ill will,” Clark noted. There was a painful lurch in his heart at the last remark. As nice as this man appeared to be, the faint criticism made the Kryptonian reluctant to continue their conversation since it wasn’t kind to speak about their host like that, but the other persisted.

“I don’t believe we’ve been properly introduced. I’m Octavian. No last name as I feel ridiculously old being formally addressed so by someone about my age.” 

“It’s nice to meet you. I’m Clark Kent, which you probably know already.” The one thing the reporter gathered was that gossip in this circle travelled at the speed of lightening and news sensations. 

“I prefer hearing people tell me their names. Some have unique ways of saying them, which could be quite meaningful.” Octavian leaned forward, marginally getting into Clark’s personal space. He was sitting close enough without breaking the propriety line at the border of the allowed. “It is my profession after all to seek out all things beautiful.” 

“I would have thought you were a businessman rather than an artist.” 

The expression in this man’s eyes was direct rather than muse seeking, complimenting his handsome if harsh features. 

“I’m both. Business is to ensure I live in no less luxury than Mr Wayne and I can be equally influential, while sculpting is more of a soul calling. It allows me to seek out the inspiration and perfection.” 

There must have been a long rivalry history between the two. For some reason, this individual felt compelled to compare himself to Bruce and didn’t quite measure up adequately. 

“Well, congratulations, Mr… Octavian. It is valuable being able to follow your passions.” 

Clark got an impression that what he said was interpreted slightly differently by his conversation partner. The faintest smile curved his lips like he had laughed at an internal joke. 

“May I?” he asked.

Yeah, it's plain to see  
That baby you're beautiful

“Sorry, may you what?”

“Professional curiosity,” Octavian assured, reaching out. He placed an index finger under the reporter’s chin, titling his head to let the light pour over his face at a certain angle. “You have an intriguing bone structure,” Octavian said like he was examining an exquisite work of art, “almost non-human. Have you considered wearing contact lenses?”

“Not at all!” As Clark withdrew sharply. His back hit an armrest as he scooted backwards. “They make my eyes itch horribly. I’m probably allergic to the material they’re made out of. My eyes just become all puffy and watery. It’s rather gross really.” 

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.” Octavian closed the distance between them, trapping the journalist against the armrest as he couldn’t move away any farther without making a scene of jumping and pushing the other aside in the process. “How clumsy of me. I'm apologizing again,” he claimed, taking Clark’s hand. 

Was he going to shake it? What an odd way of apologising. 

And there's nothing wrong with you  
It's me I'm a freak  
But thanks for lovin' me  
'Cause you're doing it perfectly

The sculptor turned his hand and lifted it, intending to place a kiss on the sensitive skin on the wrist. Octavian nearly got hit as another hand briskly closed around Clark’s wrist, covering the spot where the lips nearly touched.

There might have been a time  
When I would let you slip away  
I wouldn't even try but I think  
You could save my life

The journalist was hurled to his feet abruptly. Scorching Octavian with an incinerating glare, Bruce pulled his date away, measuring the hall with indomitable strides. A human would have found his grip painful. His fingers were nearly white from the force of clutching the reporter’s wrist. Everyone who had a grain of common sense jumped out of their way as they stormed across the hall. Clark heard a rush of speculative snickers as to where they were going, overshadowed by lyrics. 

Just don't give up  
I'm workin' it out  
Please don't give in  
I won't let you down

Following almost timidly, the reporter was exposed to his date’s disapproving back. Clark didn’t need to see the other’s face to know that Bruce was seething. A cracking aura surrounding the vigilante engulfed them both. Accompanied by a prickling sense of guilt, Clark questioned where Bruce was taking them. Their movement was aimless as the pair swiftly traversed two unlit corridors, eventually pushing open a set of doors that led to an open balcony where Bruce finally let him go.

The autumn wind sunk its claws into their clothes and hair. The leafless trees, sketched against the night, raised their branches towards the sky like the jury that searched for a divine guidance to resolve a particularly difficult case. Starlight glimmered about them with the sounds of the hall distant like they were on a different planet. 

It messed me up, need a second to breathe  
Just keep coming around  
Hey, whataya want from me  
Whataya want from me

Whataya want from me

Whataya want from me

Bruce was a black silhouette against the garden beyond. Where he stood it looked like they were on the verge of a revelation up on a cliff. A few pebbles were crumbling into abyss under his heel while he faced the wide-reaching plateau expanse and the person before him. This play of balance was enough to steal one’s breath away.

“Do you let all sorts of perverts pawn you out of sheer niceness?” Bruce sneered. 

“He didn’t look like a pervert,” Clark responded with more certainty than he felt since the vigilante noted details the others often missed. This didn’t mean he wanted to be lectured. 

“Of course, stealing a handkerchief from someone’s pocket to return it to them speaks of the most honourable intentions.”

“He came to apologize for ambushing me like that,” Clark explained, perceiving nothing criminal in wanting to say sorry. “I didn’t know about the handkerchief.” 

Now that it was pointed out, it seemed like a strange way to initiate a conversation. Clark had assumed Bruce’s acquaintance approached him out of curiosity because the billionaire prior must have been dating glamorous supermodels. The way Bruce was referring to their conversation made it sound like Octavian wanted something dirty.

“He can say sorry without grabbing your face or slobbering all over your hands.”

“Just what are you implying?” Clark exclaimed. Why did he have to defend himself against some phantom accusations? 

“That next he was going to get into your pants under the guise of a platonic hug.”

“What?! He was aware that I’m your date!” the Kryptonian choked, not entirely certain about the solidity of his argument because such a considerations wouldn't have stopped a number of people. Not everyone valued fidelity. “Besides…” Clark drew a breath, entirely indignant, “how could he when I’m…” 

“He doesn’t know that! Not that anyone will suspect later either, but that…” Bruce pointed at his abdomen, “doesn’t even look yet like a notable weight gain.”

While Clark was aware that no one else would have known about his condition, in both cultures pregnancy signalled to others that this person was already occupied and thwarted advances. Clark hadn’t expected that it would enter anyone’s mind to hit on him, more so since the plain reporter rarely drew this kind of attention. 

“In that case, thank you for saving me from those unscrupulous advances.” It still sounded crazy. Since the dark knight claimed it was true, Clark had to believe him. Some people had no shame! The Kryptonian opted to mollify his date. Bruce appeared to be more offended than the intended victim. “Also, thank you for not complimenting me earlier. I have a feeling Alfred would have kicked us both out of the house after hearing some of your poetry.”

His aim at a jest missed the mark. Maybe he had overestimated Alfred’s abilities a little. Batman didn’t seem amused or threatened by the idea of being kicked out of his own home. 

“That was no compliment!” Bruce exclaimed fiercely. “That was a shameful oversight on my part, which never should have been aimed at you. I respect you too much to mean a poem that ludicrous! After years of cooperation in the League, do you think me so insipid as to rank your backside as your foremost quality?"

The vigilante was still as a statue. The forceful energy emanating from his figure seemingly uplifted the balcony they were standing on. Or maybe Clark simply imagined they were flying without physically lifting off from the ground, which came from the elation of hearing that he was perceived as more than an irritant. The words torn from the dark knight were undeniably genuine even if his explanation sounded more like an accusation.

“You have an immense powers helping you achieve all those mind-boggling deeds that make simpletons gush. That’s not what astonishes me and not even your reasons for choosing how to use these powers. It’s your compassion bordering magical that I will never understand. You don’t even swat flies! You catch them and blow them out the window. And by doing so, you make me want to spare those buzzing infection sources as well.” 

This pull away from his ruthless vigilante persona drove him insane. Twisted his essence. Bruce did not want to promote it. He did not want to encourage it. How was he to chain those impulses when Clark’s face lit up by a brilliant smile he hadn’t seen in days? It’s not that he bitterly missed it. It’s just that Clark wasn’t right without a ridiculous grin that started with an uplifting of his mouth and blossomed into a vibrant look, bright enough to sprout flowers from the balcony concrete. 

“Thank you for telling me. I’m glad you value our relationship enough to clear a misunderstanding.” 

The force of that smile intensified. It was solely aimed at him for the sentiments that should have been kept hidden. The dark knight inwardly kicked himself for yielding another inch, and yet in doing so there was a sense of choosing a step forward because Clark dared to step towards him again. It wasn't even a hug, more like a half of it with a hand placed on his shoulder when Clark stood close, making the shadows fall behind.


	21. Chapter 21

With the dawn raking its pale rays across the Wayne mansion rooftop, Alfred caught a whiff of a frying meal as soon as he stepped out of his quarters. As unlikely as it seemed that Master Bruce would be occupied by such an activity, the vigilante must have returned late from the patrol and decided to forego disturbing the butler by taking the breakfast preparation into his hands. For a genius apt at mixing the most volatile substances, the young man could not connect an egg with a frying pan surface without a moderate explosion. Unless the cooking profess involved a cup of coffee and a sandwich, the kitchen was in eminent danger, such as the incident when Master Bruce attempted to feed Dick macaroni and cheese that resulted in a week of scraping a pungent, yellowish mass off the ceiling and walls. This consideration prompted Alfred to forego opening the draperies in the living room and proceed to secure his domain. 

As turned out, it was not Bruce who took the liberty of occupying the kitchen. Having borrowed a red apron Alfred had forgotten they owned, and with his sleeves rolled up to the elbows, their guest was nimbly flipping another pancake onto a highly amounted pile. 

"Good morning," Clark turned to the butler with an earnest smile that did not lack a grain of uncertainty. "I hope you will not consider this an usurpation of your place. I'm only borrowing it for a morning. You're always so considerate. For once, I wanted to do something nice for you,” he gestured to the table set for three where not a single utensil was out of place. 

"I have no objection to you using the kitchen with the same amount of freedom you would have at home for as long as it remains orderly," the butler allowed, taking an appreciative note at the neatness preserved on the countertop after a messy activity. 

Assuming a seat across their guest, Alfred marked how the hero’s well being had improved significantly in their care, much to his satisfaction as it was not without his help. The dark circles under his eyes were gone, along with the lethargic state that plagued Clark during the first week. In fact, there was a bubbly energy about him. 

“I know I overdid it,” Clark gestured to the overflowing plate. “Bruce probably won’t wake up until twelve. I just wanted to make sure there will be enough for everyone.” 

With an evident pleasure, Alfred took a tentative bite. This had to be a local Smallville recipe. The fluffy pancakes were delicious with the apple slices blended into the dough. 

“I don’t even know whether Bruce likes pancakes,” Clark added as an afterthought. 

“I’m confident Master Bruce will be delighted to eat them, provided he could be persuaded to sit down long enough to taste them.”

If cramming an entire meal into a tablet was possible, Batman wouldn’t have depended on any alternative nourishment. The butler made an inward note that Master Bruce for too long had neglected a simple joy of pancakes and it would be very healthy for him to enjoy them today.

“He is the busiest person I know,” Clark acknowledged. There was no judgement, just shame how a delight of the small things like sharing a peaceful breakfast was sacrificed. 

The joy came to the Kryptonian naturally. There was something contagious in his pleasure of spreading sweet marmalade over the crispy pancake surface and Alfred had hope that this sentiment might touch his master as well.

“May I ask you a favour?” Seeing that he had Alfred’s undivided attention Clark requested, “Can you call me by my first name please? Most of my friends tend to use it.” 

Alfred cleared his throat delicately, considering how much of his personal expectations were to be revealed. “It stands to reason, after sharing your delicious pancakes and giving me the permission to use your first name, that addressing me should be informal as well, given this is how the family members normally call me.”

“Are you sure it would be all right?” the reporter didn’t miss the implication. He wasn’t doing the best job of concealing a hopeful note. “I’m not family after all.” 

“I don’t believe closeness is measured by a formalised piece of paper. I prefer to give the permission to use my first name based on the personal judgement.”

“I’d be happy to call you Alfred then. Thank you. Talking to you always puts me at ease.” 

Clark got up to collect the dirty dishes and set them into the sink. That’s where the butler has had enough help. “Thank you for the kind gesture,” he said, ushering the man away. “I can manage the rest.” 

Clark ran a hand through his dark hair like he was contemplating the next move and then another hug sprung up on the butler out of nowhere. Just as swiftly as the gesture was made, it vanished along with the reporter who was half way to Metropolis in a blink of an eye, racing towards another day with his head lost in the clouds. A silly smile refusing to be contained played on his lips. Bruce told him that he respected him and cared enough to speak to him about it. This realization made Clark giddy. 

He breezed to the Daily Planet, emerging as a regular tie and shoes paper worker from the nearest alley. The elevator he wasn’t on the best of terms with was taking its time, so Clark scaled the stairs, managing to avoid by a hair a collision with Jimmy Olsen dutifully carrying another burden of boxes. Dropping off his suitcase onto the work desk, Clark got into the drawer almost up to his elbows, sorting through a multitude of notes. 

“Hey there, have you lost your notebook where you’ve been making notes on that fire you’re racing after?” 

“Hi Lois, I’m sorry I ran past you without a greeting. I was lost in thought. It is wonderful to see you.”

“Whoa there,” she chuckled as the reporter apologetically took her hand and danced several steps across the office with a smile to melt the Arctic ice that said sorry for grazing her toes. “You look different somehow,” Lois noted, doing her best not to laugh at her dance partner whose waltzing skills resembled a dizzy duckling sashay rather than the graceful swan gliding. “You look like…” unable to quite put her finger on the excitement and energy, she summed up, “you’re glowing.” 

“Why thank you. You look radiant yourself.” 

“Sweet talk won’t get you out of prying. You’ve put out three front page articles. Next thing you know, I’ll begin suspecting that you have a secret such as multiple identities to help you be in several places at once.” 

“Of course I have a big secret. Provided I tell you, does this mean you will respond in kind and share with me your notes on your next headline?”

Lois spun him around and away with a small smack on the backside, indicating that their play was over and it was back to business.

“You’re not THAT cute!” 

**********************************************************************************************************************************************

Whoever decided that mornings began before twelve o’clock urgently needed their opinion, along with their upright alarm clock, shoved up that happy place they were using for sitting. Crawling out from the nest of covers towards the stinging light to trek into the breakfast area where he muttered an unintelligible greeting to Alfred, Bruce recalled with a stark dissatisfaction that he was cutting it close with the Board of Directors meeting. This alone made him wish to avoid opening his mouth more than necessary. Unfortunately, Alfred had other ideas. 

“I don't believe coffee constitutes as food, more so when breakfast is the only meal you will have all day,” the butler noted. 

With this preamble, a plate of pancakes was slid along the tabletop right under his nose. Alfred had many fine qualities. Nagging him about the eating habits or a lack of thereof wasn’t one of them. 

“While a splat of dough rolled around on a frying pan would save my life,” Bruce pronounced drolly, willing his coffee to hurry up to gulp it down and flee. He brushed the plate aside to get to the pot like he was running an obstacle course. Suspiciously, Alfred didn’t insist more.

“Very well, I will regretfully inform Master Clark the breakfast he made for you was thrown into trash.” 

Coffee sloshed over the rim, nearly scalding his hand. An image of a self-depreciating smile when Clark wasn’t sure how his gesture would be received flashed through his mind. Bruce glared at the pancakes like they were the national nuclear arsenal. 

“I don’t care who made them,” Bruce announced through a mouthful of coffee. “I’m not eating them.”

“I’m confident those businessmen you’re having a meeting with will cherish the two minutes of time you’ll be saving them.” 

The scepticism of that appreciation ate through the tray that Alfred picked up before stepping out of the kitchen since his presence there wasn’t required. 

When he returned half an hour later, the pancakes had mysteriously disappeared. 

********************************************************************************************************************************************** 

Another great article. Clark almost felt sorry for his colleague’s indignation when Lois found out that her exposure of a massive drug bust was not getting the absolute best attention it deserved, but he had no doubt the feisty journalist would soon assert her rightful place as the number one reporter.

It wasn’t entirely dark yet when he stepped out of the Daily Planet skyscraper with the running headline around the massive globe just obtaining a yellow glow. It felt strange being susceptible to the natural elements again. The autumn wind turned his cheeks rosy. Clark pulled the overcoat around his form and closed the buttons. The article of clothing used for disguise had obtained a practical purpose. 

Up ahead of him a laughing family paid no heed to the bitter elements, warmed by their shared love. Dressed in a jacket and a chequered uniform skirt, a little girl skipped down the sidewalk several steps ahead of her parents who regarded her with pride of the couple who sent their child to the first year of school. They were smiling at her antiques and keeping close together with the man’s arm wrapped around his wife’s waist. When he thought she wasn’t looking he pressed a roguish kiss onto her temple. 

The little girl picked up a red and gold leaf, one of a few left from the fallen foliage, and proudly demonstrated the trophy to her parents. Her father lifted the child into his arms and spun them around, imitating the flight path of that leaf before it touched the ground, and then carried his daughter inside a store with the other hand holding open the door for his wife. 

Through the large display windows glowing amber, Clark saw an elderly couple who looked so much like the younger woman. She rushed forth to hug them both, throwing her head back to laugh abundantly at her father’s remark before stepping aside to allow their granddaughter attach herself to her grandfather’s leg with a happy shout.

Clark caught himself smiling brightly as well in appreciation. This was the picture he had imagined his family would present his entire life. For both, his adoptive and biological parents love was a binding force that filled their families with affection and a sense that they could withstand anything as long as they had each other, even the end of the world. His smile dimmed in question, what would his child find upon entering the world? Sadly, it had to be two estranged parents with the opposing views, forced to be civil to each other for the good of another being. As much as he appreciated Batman’s stoicism and immediate acceptance, this was no substitute for parental devotion a child could thrive on. Their shared signs of affection were but an act that wasn't going to fool their family. Children had a way of sensing any falseness without words. Clark wondered what it would be like to kiss Bruce openly, knowing his feelings were reciprocated even if not easily received. What would it mean to walk side by side freely with their children and his parents, and hold hands.

Clark knew he was postponing the conversation with his parents unacceptably long in fear that he couldn’t fulfill this one, yet such an important expectation of a loving family. They would not be unkind, no, but they would be disappointed. He owed them better. The crisp air filled him with dread as he took a bracing breath, resolving to speak to with his parents the next weekend. 

The happy family moved into the store depth. Clark remained where he was, watching an empty window.


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hellloooo!
> 
> Happy Dec 1st, the winter starts now! I declare this to be a Christmas writing season. I'm still working crazy lots up to mid December, but I'm going to put some extra effort into getting more writing done! So, maybe I'll squeeze more chapters in this month! 
> 
> Have an amazing Christmas month everyone! <3
> 
> ______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

It was good to be home, to hear a third floorboard creak underneath his foot and have the childhood house comfort him with familiarity. A sentimental smile was lighting up Clark’s face, even though trepidation refused to abate during his entire flight to Kansas. 

“Clark,” his mother’s welcoming hug always made him feel cherished. Martha guided the family into the house, allowing her husband to place the bouquet brought by her son into a lacquer vase. “It’s been so long since you came home. I’m very happy to see you.” 

“I need to talk to both of you,” he requested as they moved into the living room. 

Martha picked up the tension radiating from her son as soon as she embraced him. The pair exchanged a concerned look, waiting for Clark to explain why he was ill at ease. 

A few newspaper extracts lay on the coffee table between them, featuring Superman performing the latest miracles. Encouraged that his parents were keeping track of his activities as keenly as ever and drawing strength from this support, the hero spoke up. 

“What I need to tell you concerns my heritage,” Clark allowed his parents to brace for the unusual news by mentioning his alien culture. “As it turns out, some males on my birth planet are capable of bearing children. I am one of them.” 

A hopeful smile appeared on Martha's face, while her husband in contrast remained sombre. Jonathan regarded the situation realistically, considering the difficulties that would arise.

"Are you telling us we can expect to become grandparents?" 

With his mother’s smile growing warmer, Clark nodded, his throat too constricted to speak. He was grateful how calmly his parents accepted the news, as it was expected of a couple that adopted a child who came from the sky. They were used to the surprises Clark had thrown their way, such as an emergence of his superpowers. Nor were they surprised that his partner was a man. Martha had known he was interested in males ever since Clark confessed to her in high school about having a crush on his biology teacher. 

"Oh sweetheart, that's wonderful," Martha reached across the table to take his hand, as much as she was worried. "Why haven't you brought your husband to meet us? You must introduce him."

Sadly, his parents weren't taking this lapse into silence equally well, while Clark tried to find a satisfactory explanation without revealing what happened on Vertrana. 

"I cannot bring him to meet you," Clark forced a few words out at last. "I don't believe he is interested in deepening our relationship."

"Are you telling us you conceived without being in a family oriented relationship?" Jonathan asked. His brow furrowed in disapproval, worsened by the guilt ridden lack of answer that made way for imagination to consider the worst possibilities. 

Unable to defend himself, Clark looked at the man who raised him beseechingly. Interpreting the silence as shame, the farmer slammed his fist on the table, making his wife jump. 

"Jonathan!" she admonished. 

"Don't defend him! Is this what living in the city has taught him? To take pleasure from his body without regard? Since he bedded a person who won't take an honourable step to marry him, who knows how many others were there. Unlikely, they were of a reputable character. We don't need Jenny Jones to disgrace our family!"

Clark thought he'd burn from shame. Jenny was ill regarded by the Smallville community. She had an obsessive idea that it was best to get married through bed by leading on several men, who once it was revealed that she got knocked up pointed fingers at each other and fled from her like from plague. His father was looking at Clark like he was caught embodying her values. 

"I thought I raised my son better than to have him show up one day, expecting and single. I thought he had better morals than that!" 

Too angry to continue, Jonathan stormed out and disappeared in the kitchen with his wife following. The door slammed shut muffling the voices, one pleading and the other indignant with him hearing every word. 

"Talk to him. Let him explain." 

"If he had an explanation it would have been offered immediately." 

"In the morning..."

"I won't have it! He can't expect the parents to take responsibility for his foolish actions!" 

The voices stilled and Martha came out defeated. With a heavy sigh she took a seat across, conflicted between her child and the man she had lived an entire life with. 

"Dearest, you know that we care about you so much. But, your father is so angry. He needs some time to calm down. It might be best for you to return to Metropolis and let him mull over the situation. I’ll give you a call when you can return." 

As much as Clark had considered the possibility of being rejected and how hard it would be, he wasn't prepared for the crushing defeat at having his parents denounce him. "You're embarrassed by me and you want me to leave," he summed up as Martha raised her hand in denial, but didn't contradict. "I will not disgrace you with my presence then." 

Taking a look around the room like he wanted to say goodbye, Clark rose with a haunting sense that hugging his mother wouldn't be appreciated. With a swift goodbye, he stepped out into a starless night. His mother's figure was dark against the house lights as she stood in the doorway, watching her son leave. When the door clicked shut, it brought a harrowing pain of loosing another family. 

**********************************************************************************************************************************************

His legs hurt and the knee Josh smashed to blood by jumping from one stairway to another swelled twice its size. His breath came out in short gasps. For the mercy of all, why wouldn't that thing leave him be? What more did it want? Josh was the fastest guy on the block and he was panting hard by the time he dived into a dead end alley where he crouched behind some trash cans. The menacing shadow chasing him made his hair stand up on his head. 

Just once he had the misfortune to borrow a hundred bucks from the Frankie's gang. When Josh came to return it, he was informed about a draconic percentage adding up over the past three weeks. Unless he paid tenfold, he was going to get the shit beaten out of him or cut out of his ass. That's why the following night he picked up a brick and smashed it into a jewellery store display. Making a grab of whatever was the closest, he prayed no one would be fast enough react to the petty crime. Except, some vengeful spirit must have been guarding the treasure because a black rider of Apocalypse chased him half way across the city. Josh threw down all the stuff in hopes it would mollify the ghost, but to no avail. 

The unsuccessful thief, clasped a hand over his mouth to silence the loud breathing as an imposing figure blocked the alley entrance. The wobbling knees must have given away the criminal because the dark knight advanced towards his hiding spot. Josh swore he’d never do something so idiotic again if only that guy would go away. He’d tell Frankie that he had paid him back already and he’d go to the police if the gang tried anything. Heck, the gang had nothing on this guy when it came to intimidation. Josh swore to God he’d be good.

Invoking Almighty must have worked. The dark knight stopped to regard a monitor secured on his wrist. Following an indivisible call, he abandoned the chase. His teeth chattering, Josh slumped against the wall in utter disbelief that he was in one piece. 

**********************************************************************************************************************************************

One minute to reach the car. Four to get home. The heart rate was irregular, taking sharp dives here and there. Respiratory abysmal. He would have thought Clark was drowning, except the signal originated from home. It must have been another hyperventilation attack. Batman reached for the com link to contact Alfred, then reconsidered. His family friend was seeing a fifth dream, interrupting which he was loath when he could get there just as quickly. 

What if that beat stopped? The dark knight floored the gas pedal, pushing the car to the limit. The perpendicular lines of the Gotham buildings regarded the maddening race in an uncompassionate magnificence, used to people running and dying and running again under their facades. Had they the ability to speak, the secrets they would have told about an endless stream of faces passing them by in a rush. They also knew that the city vigilante made no runs in vain. Having breezed by them towards the Wayne Manor, the Batmobile came to a steaming halt in the cave. From there, Batman knew the shortest route to any part of the house, including Clark’s room. 

The dark knight stood on no ceremony kicking open the door. The racket drew no response from the person who had the ability to hear a sneaking cat all the way in Metropolis. 

“Superman.”

Batman removed the cowl and gloves, dropping them onto the floor haphazardly as he approached the bed in two strides. It was quite large, dwarfing a figure curled up in a foetal position with an entanglement of blankets pushed aside. Clark’s face was hidden by an elbow. His breath came shallow and pained. 

“Kal-El,” the vigilante tried another name, getting no response from the first title. Batman placed his hand on a tension gripped shoulder and gave the metahuman a firm shake. “Wake up already!” Having to shuffle onto the bed to get a better grip, Batman leaned against the headboard and forced the metahuman to straighten from the protective posture by motioning Clark to rest against him. The change revealed a pale face where distress was etched into every line. Shockingly, there were tears running down Clark's cheeks in his sleep.

“Wake up please,” Bruce implored, leaning closer to whisper into his ear. “Don’t make me use a shocker to get a reaction out of you.” 

The dark eyelashes fluttered and the blue eyes slowly cracked open. They were filled with confusion and hurt. 

“Mother?” 

“Most certainly not!” Bruce hissed. “You’re not in Kansas either!”

There was a pause, while the other worked out that the gruff voice didn’t belong to Martha Kent. 

“B-bruce?” 

“Now we’re getting somewhere.” 

“Are you going to tell me to go too?”

“Go where?” the dark knight asked, wondering if he had overestimated how coherent the metahuman was.

“Away.” The word was whispered brokenly and Clark flinched like he was expecting to be kicked. 

“No!” Bruce exclaimed vehemently. “What brought this absurd assumption.” The dark knight brushed a soaked hair strand out of the Kryptonian’s face, searching for answers. Clark's forehead was covered in beads of sweat. Bruce used a blanket's edge to wipe them away.

“You won’t?” the question came uncertainly with an expectation of a cruel trick.

“I won’t." 

Upon confirmation, Clark turned around and clutched onto the vigilante’s armour, burying his face in his chest where the bat symbol was engraved. His body shook with sobs. Unsure what to do, Bruce wrapped his arms around the trembling form. Recalling how he held Dick when the young man got hurt, he awkwardly rubbed Clark’s back, marvelling at the absurdity of it all. He had raced across the city to save Superman from a nightmare. Yet, normal nightmares did not stop the heartbeat. 

“You had a very bad dream. Whatever it was, it isn’t true,” Bruce assured. It was tempting to throw the other into the shower and slap him to knock some sense into his guest, except Bruce had been researching the changes the hormones wrecked with the body during the pregnancy and how difficult it was to control the emotions. The vigilante felt sorely inadequate when it came to a gentler approach of reassuring someone. He was better off as a whip than a comforting blanket. “You need to calm down. I’m going to take you to the bathroom. All right?” 

As patiently as possible, Bruce motioned the other to get off the bed and wrapping an arm around Clark's waist led him into the next room where he turned on the tap, choosing a cool setting. 

“Wash your face.” 

Bruce coaxed the metahuman into releasing him and placing his hands under the stream to gather the water. The sweat covered pyjamas clung to Clark's body uncomfortably, making him shiver. 

The consciousness returned gradually as the Kryptonian washed away the nightmare’s traces and focused on Batman with a renewed awareness. 

“Bruce? What happened?” 

Fighting off the weakness that came with relief, Bruce tightened his grip on the other’s waist, needing to appear much stronger. 

“Actually, we should sit down and you can inform me what happened,” Bruce told him.


	23. Chapter 23

"Do you have something to change into?" Bruce prompted, leading them back to the bedroom where he motioned Clark to sit down on the edge of the bed. Bruce chastised his reluctance in removing an arm from the reporter's waist as Clark gestured towards the dresser. There was another pyjama set in an otherwise empty drawer. Guessing correctly the socks were stored in the bottom drawer, Bruce chose a warm pair. 

"I'm going to return in a few minutes. You should change meanwhile," Bruce advised, placing the neatly folded clothes onto Clark's lap. "I'll return very fast. I promise," he assured when the metahuman impulsively touched his elbow, fearful of parting with the person who comforted him. Rather than prying his hand away, Bruce waited for Clark to let go voluntarily. The other did so, swallowing nervously. 

It wasn't the best to leave the Kryptonian alone when he was so distraught. It took effort to reach the kitchen without breaking into a run. Although his hands were dry, Bruce felt like there were tear droplets lingering on his skin after brushing away the wetness from Clark's cheeks. 

Due to Alfred's vigilance, there was plenty of fresh milk stocked in the fridge. Bruce poured some into a pan to it heat up. He dug through the cupboard in search of the largest and sturdiest mug. This was the second time he witnessed Clark Kent cry and he never wanted to be subjected to the heart-clenching sight again that made him wish to flee planet Earth or jump off a Gotham skyscraper without a grappling hook, knowing the landing won't be as awful. Those few tiny droplets made him flounder less in control than in the face of a raging tsunami. 

The blue flames glowing under the pot wavered like they were motioning the dark knight to return to the bedroom. Following their silent instruction Bruce turned off the stove and poured milk into the mug, adding a spoonful of the delicious blueberry honey into the mix. The drink worked perfectly in relaxing the body and calming the nerves. Long ago, when he was huddling under the bed overwhelmed by fears, Alfred made it for him right after... Bruce crushed the emerging memory ruthlessly. It was still a raw wound that was never going to heal. Rather than letting the darkness take over, it was better to focus on another person who needed him. 

Dressed in fresher pyjamas, Clark was waiting perched up on the bed where Batman left him. The hero sought out the dark knight immediately like he had been listening to his movement throughout the house. 

"Here," Bruce took a seat beside Clark, placing the mug into his hands. "It's a tested recipe that works well for soothing the jittering nerves." Hopefully, it worked well enough to lure the Kryptonian into sleep. 

Clark muttered thanks, bashfully examining the content of his cup. His hands were shaking, prompting Bruce to steady the mug and raise it to allow his friend to take a sip. Bruce kept his grip loose, almost cradling the other's fingers and allowing the Kryptonian to do what he felt most comfortable with. 

"I believed I had lost my family. The dream was so real," Clark said brokenly, pressing the cup to his chest and keeping his gaze down on his lap. "I intend to tell my parents about the pregnancy tomorrow, but I haven't been able to find a way to withhold the information about Vertrana as I need to be careful. Your identity isn't my secret to give away. I cannot lie to them or even bend the truth." More treacherous tears emerged on his eyelashes and Clark blinked them away. Drawing a shaky breath he continued. "My parents adhere to the strict traditional values. When I told them I conceived out of wedlock they interpreted it b-badly," the words came out increasingly distraught and interrupted by sniffs. "They behaved like they thought I was a whore and a d-disgrace. My father was f-furious. They asked me to leave. I t-thought my family n-never wants to see me again." 

The cup craned alarmingly and Bruce tightened his grip, preserving it for several more sips. "Your parents would never say or do anything so hurtful," he assured with an unwavering conviction. "Judging by how you turned out, they're the epitome of the gushing idealism and goodness."

There was a hint of a watery smile at having his parents complimented. Undoubtedly, Clark thought a world of them. 

"I k-know I'm not being very reasonable," he admitted shakily. "They're very loving and accepting, but I still dread talking to them tomorrow because they mean so much to me." 

"I wonder where you have gotten the muddled idea that you must talk to your family alone when someone else here also owes them a good explanation," the dark knight drawled out like it was the most natural conclusion, while up to this moment he hadn't considered being a participant in any mushy family discussion at all. Superman always referred to his family with great reverence and Bruce assumed they'd be informed, sparing him from a very tacky and emotionally entangled conversation. 

The dark knight was hopelessly stuck in a self-devised trap when Clark tentatively peered up at him with a glimpse of hope in those impossibly expressive eyes.

"You'd be willing to meet my parents? I didn't want to burden you since you've already done so much." 

Entranced by the play of emotions, Bruce nodded cautiously. He was instantly rewarded by a grateful expression with his assurance chasing away the fears. 

"Thank you. I would feel much more confident with you by my side." 

"Of course. Someone has to take on the honourable mission of editing the truth for your parents," Bruce noted wryly. 

Clark shot him a look divided between amused and horrified. “I will be of zero help. Know you’re on your own,” he uttered not entirely up for exchanging witty remarks. With Bruce sitting so close, it was tempting to place his head on the dark knight’s shoulder and drift off. 

“We can plan the details tomorrow over breakfast,” Bruce decided he was overstaying his welcome. Even with the Batman’s armour between them his skin tingled at their proximity. In spite of his lack of belief in the paranormal, he should have appealed to some witch to add an anti-charm enchantment to the suit. 

“Kindly, don’t leave,” the plea emerged at an unguarded moment. As infantile as his request seemed, Clark was unable to take it back. He looked at the other hero beseechingly as Bruce collected an empty mug and set it aside on the night stand. Still too fresh in his mind, those insecurities were going to return as soon as he was going to be left alone. Bruce hesitated before turning back to him, having set the mug aside. The hand Clark was holding was tense.

“I suppose it might be prudent to remain in order to save my hide,” the dark knight relented, “since your parents are bound to blame me should you arrive looking miserable because you didn’t get a good night’s rest.” He was rewarded by Clark’s grip slightly tightening in appreciation. 

“Thank you for humouring me.” A little reluctant to let go like he expected Batman to disappear in spite of his promise, the Kryptonian climbed under the covers and glanced at the dark knight questionably. “Are you planning on sitting on the floor? I would feel bad for your discomfort. Please lie down on the bed.” 

Bruce would have preferred to sit on the other end of the room with a fresh memory of how they ended up the last time Clark fell asleep beside him. He lacked a satisfactory excuse to decline the invitation without giving the other a wrong idea that he was avoiding him again. Parting with another piece of his armour, the boots, Bruce was careful to remain atop of the covers as he climbed onto the bed and leaned against the headboard. Clark’s hand snuck into his as soon as he settled down. Watching the Kryptonian fight sleep a bit longer to convey his gratitude before drifting off, Bruce vowed to mind his manners. He was not succumbing to the allure of dreams the fellow hero's restful presence brought. 

Asleep, the metahuman looked a bit better, cradling the vigilante's fingers in his hand. What flowers did Clark's mother love the most and where did Jonathan Kent store his shotgun? Batman had an entire night to mull over these questions and what he was going to do tomorrow. Yet, he would have repeated the offer again a hundred times over. Whatever the price, it was not too high to bring Clark a peace of mind. To avoid disturbing his charge, the dark knight remained motionless throughout the night, guarding Superman the same way he watched over Gotham between the lengthening shadows and the break of dawn. He dissolved in them, missing not a beat, not a single flutter. 

______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Impeccable manners. Bruce didn’t recall when he last used them, either acting the part of the air headed playboy or being the ruthless vigilante who didn’t need them at all. As the helicopter bearing his family crest landed on the golden field near the Kent farmhouse, the dark knight questioned whether his social skills were polished enough to avoid traumatising Clark’s family over who was their grandchild’s father. 

Bruce adjusted a ribbon on the present box, perfecting the look. Martha Kent loved roses, not that an out of season preference would have stopped him from getting any outstanding bouquet. Bringing twenty five roses was probably overdoing it. Not to mention, it was a rare inconvenience of spending two hours on his attire, selecting a presentable outfit that accommodated a simpler country lifestyle and warded him from the fop label. The dark knight scowled at the stream of gushing nonsense occupying his thoughts. How difficult could it be to make a favourable impression? He wasn’t even in a relationship with Clark to fret over meeting his parents. 

Still, it would have helped if Clark didn’t look like he was sentenced to guillotine as they walked up the steps to the farmhouse porch and knocked. The long trip combined with the resurfacing stress was hardly helping. While the chopper was preferable to the car, the reporter's stomach didn’t take kindly to the air pits that were unavoidable. Even though Wayne instructed the pilot to make the ride as smooth as possible, the flight bounced the passengers. 

The response to them knocking came quickly. A neatly dressed woman in a pencil skirt and classic blouse opened the door. Her face transformed into a blinding smile at the sight of her son. 

“Jonathan,” she called another person in the house. “Clark is home!” Claiming a hug from her son and a kiss on the cheek she exclaimed, “Why didn’t you just enter? You don’t need to knock.” Releasing her son to regard his companion, Martha Kent measured Bruce with a sage look, taking into consideration his suit that looked good enough to get married in, and a glint of mischief emerged in her eyes. “Is this because you didn’t come alone?” 

“Mom, this is Bruce Wayne.”

Bruce considered whether it would be too much kissing her hand and then presented their gift. “It’s a pleasure to meet the family Clark speaks of so warmly and holds in such a high regard.” 

A sturdily built man joined their conversation and placed his hand onto his wife’s shoulder, thoughtfully regarding the newcomer. His grip was firm when Bruce shook his hand, noting the same open posture he came to associate with Clark. Jonathan’s far too honest face reflected mistrust in contrast with his wife’s quick acceptance. 

“I am familiar with who you are,” the farmer stated. “Important news and big names reach places as far as Smallville.”

Much to his mortification, Bruce spotted a newspaper folded under Jonathan’s arm. The top page featured an outrageous shot of him pouring brandy down the oversized, silicone cleavage of the mayor’s daughter. When the League alarm went off, he urgently had to find an excuse to disappear, but why did he have to choose that method? 

“This was an unfortunate incident that will never repeat again,” Bruce assured. “The reporters tend to exaggerate the severity or significance of such events.”

“Is that what you think about my son’s profession?”

Bruce was saved from the tricky response by Martha’s alarmed exclamation. Dropping the flowers, she clutched onto her son’s sleeve who swayed, pale as a ghost. Bruce looped an arm around Clark’s waist. When the other sagged against him, Bruce lifted the Kryptonian into his arms. 

Without an overwhelming panic, yet greatly worried, Jonathan showed their guest the way to the living room where Bruce placed his charge on the couch. The tie Clark had so meticulously arranged in the morning was removed along with the outer layer of clothes. With an uncooperative, numbed fingers Bruce pried the top shirt buttons open, while Jonathan tucked a pillow under Clark’s feet to elevate them. Bruce voided his mind of the fragmented, importune thoughts mixing in with concern of unbuckling the belt and tugging open the top pants button that were constricting the abdomen. Whatever fantasy he ever had, it never involved doing so with the parents present.

Martha returned quickly from the kitchen with a glass of apple juice. Anxious, but realising he had to give space to the family first, Bruce moved over and knelt by the couch, gathering Clark’s hand into his. To their relief, the reporter snapped out of it soon and obediently took a few sips of the nourishing drink, coaxed by his mother. Colour was gradually returning to his face. While Clark’s father remained calm, Bruce easily deciphered an overwhelming concern. It was unlikely that Superman fell ill on them often. 

“Clark,” Martha’s voice was firm if kind. “You need to tell us what’s wrong and how we can make it better.” 

When the Kryptonian claimed he won't be helpful, Bruce never expected the joke would be literal. Clark was mutely regarding his mother like it was his last day on Earth. These good people deserved an answer even if came from someone else, so Bruce plunged into the deep.

“I believe I can offer an explanation.”


	24. trololol

Jonathan Kent shoots Bruce Wayne and Clark marries Aquaman.

The End.

The author has gathered a social commentary regarding this abrupt ending.

"Worst fic ever! (except chapter 5)"  
\- Anonymous Vig

"You get this thing that makes me puke every day out of me NOW!"  
\- D.P. Reporter

"Tell Superman I had nothing to do with this. Wait... what was the question?"  
\- Head of the Lex Corp.

"Def. in my top 3 fics!"  
-Aquaman

"I demand an explanation for this bullshit!"  
-Universe 

Author: Awful news everyone! Grinch has stolen the rest of the chapters and there will be no more until we get them back! D:

Grinch: Hey, wait a minute... I have an alibi! I was busy stealing the Griswold's Christmas Tree!

Author: Shoosh, you! I'm not done with the next chapter yet. You're guilty until proven innocent. ];D


	25. no trolol

Bruce ran his thumb soothingly along his friend’s knuckles as Clark tensed at the revelation to be, while all the attention in the room was focused on the speaker.

“Your son is a very special person,” Bruce conveyed as much calm as possible with the floorboards looking good enough to melt through. “While I admit to being surprised, it was a very welcome sentiment. Our news are joyful. Mr and Mrs Kent, you must prepare to become grandparents.”

In the several seconds of deafening silence, Bruce fully appreciated the desire to faint until Martha’s face lit up by a radiant smile. 

“Oh, sweetheart, just when I think you cannot make us any happier, you manage it.”

Martha wrapped her son in a tender hug. Jonathan leaned closer to them, placing a hand on her back and clasping his son’s shoulder tight. 

“Thank you for such a precious gift,” the delighted grandmother sniffed and smiled through tears as Jonathan kissed her temple in encouragement. 

“You’re crying mother,” Clark smiled at his parents bashfully, wiping a tear from Martha’s cheek with love. “And making me do it too.” He was trying hard to withhold crying anew, but a few droplets appeared on his eyelashes.

Bruce watched the family in detachment like their joy and kindness didn’t belong to him. The dark knight supposed he wasn’t a lost soul after all, progressing from once envying Superman’s liberty his power brought to envying him for a wonderful family where everyone unconditionally supported each other. This was what he was robbed of at the young age. There were fleeting times when Bruce felt more alien than the Kryptonian like those moments he could only observe but not be a part of. He was underestimating how little escaped Martha Kent’s notice. 

The dark knight's breath caught when she looked his way and the clear eyes locked with his because Martha released her son and made two steps towards their guest, enveloping him in a lasting embrace. “Thank you too for a miracle,” she whispered into his ear, holding him freely until Bruce raised his arms to wrap them around her in return. Her sincerity didn’t scald him, bringing back those sunny days when his mother held him with the same care. No wonder Clark was so protective of his family. 

“Thank you for accepting my son and appreciating how special he is. Take good care of him.”

“That remains to be seen,” Jonathan noted sceptically. “I’d like to speak privately with our guest should he be willing.”

Bruce nodded abruptly, reading an alternative meaning of ‘should he have the courage.’ 

Not missing a beat of that exchange, Clark tried to protest. His mother’s gentle look stopped him, allowing the pair to head out to the porch. 

“They’ll be fine,” Martha assured, perching up beside her son on the couch once more and running a hand through his hair. “Your fiancé seems like a fine man. I’m sure they will find common ground.” An expression of unwavering belief that her son was the best and none would think otherwise emerged as she added secretively, “I’m sure he’s completely in love with you. He looked so very worried when you blacked out and held you so protectively.”

Even with his mother imagining things, there was a childlike part of him that had faith in her always being right. 

“I believe my mother, who thinks everyone should love me, would be a little biased, no?” Clark quipped for the sake of distraction, but Martha was not to be thrown off track easily. 

Small signs, such as how Clark tilted his head, briefly avoiding her gaze before resolving to look up directly, gave away his dismay.

“My star, you’re blushing crimson at the mere mention of this attraction. You’re in love way over your head!” 

Persuading his mother otherwise was futile since there were gleeful cupids already flying around in her imagination and a picture of couple kissing at the altar was set in the frame of intertwined roses. 

“Your fiancée looks quite glamorous,” Martha added without bothering to lower her voice, imparting her wisdom on her son before he disappeared again into the wide world. “I hope you sacrificed your shopping dislike to purchase some sexy underwear he could appreciate.”

“I’ll put it on top of my shopping list,” Clark added with a slight smile, humouring her. Wishing for a change of conversation, he tried to get up. While Batman wasn’t metahuman, he had an excellent hearing and wasn’t far away. Clark felt a little guilty when Martha put a restraining hand on his chest to stop him from getting up. 

“And where are you going?”

“I wanted another glass of apple juice,” Clark told the truth even if it wasn’t his main reason for trying to escape to the kitchen. 

“You should rest,” Martha commanded. There were a few distress lines still etched onto her son's brow that betrayed his tiredness if no longer distress. “I’ll get whatever you want.” 

“I will surely listen to my mother and stay put, but I’m the one who should be bringing something for you rather than the other way around.” Clark had to admit that his mother gave good advice. Sitting up abruptly was accompanied by dizziness. His vision swam a little, so he lay back down. “All I do is sleep lately, except for the rare occasions when I feel like bouncing over the hills." The rapid changes in his alertness were unsettling, one moment allowing him to fly to the orbit and a few minutes later leaving him powerless even to raise his head. 

“Creating a baby is very demanding on your system. It’s a tremendous job. You should listen to what your body tells you and avoid overexerting yourself.” Unwittingly, Martha's hand returned to his hair, combing through the dark strands. “When you feel fatigued, don’t fight it and take a nap.”

“Thank you," Clark patted her arm in understanding that she was worried. "I have the best mother in the world.”

“Being sweet will not save you from more embarrassing questions about your relationship, but I’ll get that juice first.” 

Imparting a pat on his cheek, Martha rose. Moving about her home as serenely as ever, she went to the kitchen to find a nourishing drink. The apple juice was the best, squeezed fresh from the orchard dutifully maintained by her husband. Clark favoured this drink since childhood. Finding a cup carefully preserved in the cupboard that her son used at home, she filled it with the rich in flavour brew. 

The little interrogation an overly curious mother had planned didn't work. The exhaustion won and when she came back, Clark was already asleep with his arm wrapped around his middle protectively. Martha tucked a warm quilt around him securely. 

Assured that her son was safe, she tiptoed over to the window and peered outside through the curtains. It didn't escape her notice that Jonathan didn't approve of her son's choice, but Martha trusted his fair nature to give this man a chance. At least they didn't look like they were trying to strangle each other yet.

"How do you feel about my son's pregnancy? This is not something well known to happen," the farmer got to the point as soon as the pair stepped out into the grip of the October day, crisp with a brown country road running towards the blue horizon, and the harvested fields neatly stacked and stretching across the countryside.

"Human physiology is quite complex," said Bruce. "I do not dub male pregnancy an impossibility. The concept has been around in the media for a while. Thus, it wasn't shocking. Plus, these ideas tend to be rooted in reality. With homosexuality being shunned and only recently gaining acceptance, I imagine a pregnant male would conceal the fact. Just because it wasn't known, doesn't mean it never happened."

"Do you intent to tell the press?"

"Absolutely not. The attention we are receiving is stressful enough without the additional publicity."

"I believe it won't come as a surprise if I ask what plans you have regarding my only son," Jonathan asked what concerned him the most. So far the answers were satisfactory, but flowed almost too smoothly like a text learned in advance.

The sun was mildly brushing the landscape in contrast with the tension gripping their conversation. Bruce could have appreciated the serene sight in a different environment when he wasn't being roasted by the concerned parent. He might have found the notion entertaining, except there was certain dignity in the farmer than inspired respect if not awe when it came down to defending his kin. This was the person who largely formed Superman's values. Batman knew better than to belittle that.

"Your family will have my commitment," the vigilante responded to the anticipated question, having come up with the lines in advance. "With my interest in males, I thought having biological children might not be a possibility for me. I'm glad to have been proven wrong. I will do everything in my power to ensure your grandchild is secure."

"While your devotion to my grandchild is commendable, you said nothing about my son, nor do I see a ring on his finger," Jonathan pointed out. "This may seem like an outdated sentiment, but in my time it spoke of commitment and desire to forge a long lasting family bond. I do not trust the same values work for many city dwellers anymore. I grant, maybe you find some peculiarity in my son intriguing. I must question what might happen should you grow bored. Clark was raised to be loyal and take the relationships seriously. I don't envy you should you break his heart because I will solve this conflict in the simplest manner by getting my shotgun and firing it at you, consequences be damned."

Correction, he wasn't just being interrogated, he was threatened, not that the vigilante wasn't about to make light of this promise. Bruce couldn't even get properly insulted at being admonished for the glib persona he had created. Caution aside, maybe it was worth to allow the Kents to find in him what the others couldn't see. After all, they have kept their son's identity a secret. 

Abandoning the frivolous stance, the vigilante spoke up like he meant every word, "If I ever hurt your son, I will help you load the shotgun." 

There was a flicker of surprise at this change. Jonathan recognized sincerity when he saw it. For the first time since their meeting a cautious respect emerged. 

"I will hold you to that promise."

When Clark woke up, the house was quiet. Even with the curtains drawn, the reporter sensed he had slept for several hours. Chastening himself for leaving Bruce alone with his parents, Clark followed the muffled voices towards the kitchen where he peered into the room and found three of his favourite people gathered around a table. Bruce was chatting with his mother amiably, while his father stuck his nose into a widely unfolded newspaper, throwing occasional glances over the rim at their guest like he wasn't buying the charm outpour aimed at his wife. Like any loving mother, ever attuned to her son's well being, Martha was the first to notice that he joined them and beamed at Clark. 

"I'm glad you're awake. I was about to check on you," she announced as he shuffled into the kitchen. "You look better." 

With the dishevelled hair and a pillow imprint on his cheek, Clark highly doubted it. "I've slept that long?" Through the parted curtains the night peered into the house windows. Dissolved in it, the nearest beacons of light were invisible. The clock hand climbed towards seven. Enticed by the delicious scents floating around the room, his stomach reminded him soundly that children appreciated lots of nourishment. 

"Perfectly long enough to get here by dinner," Martha smiled knowingly. There was much to promote the appetite with the roasted pork shoulder, mashed potatoes and a corn salad temptingly steaming in the oven. 

"I'll help," Clark volunteered to set up the table as his mother rose, ushering everyone else to wash their hands. 

Arranging the plates on the table, Clark locked eyes with Bruce apologetically. The billionaire lifted an eyebrow in amusement, alerting the Kryptonian that the lack of grudge must have stemmed from a sensitive information leakage. The peril of leaving his supposed fiancée with his mother all day and the embarrassing childhood moments she could have shared, undoubtedly deeming they defined her son's better qualities like that picture of him as a toddler stuck in a tall chair with the tip of his nose and a left ear smudged by the sunny egg yolk and his hair sticking out at the drastic angles caked in unfinished dough. 

Clark retained the memory of the first little incident at the Kent household as a toddler. Secured in the baby chair and barely tall enough to raise his nose over the countertop, the child was fascinated by the process of baking the cookies and the deft movement of Martha's hands plucking the pieces of dough and forming them into the perfect circles. The activity was interrupted by a mailman. Wiping her hands on the apron and with a quick glance that her baby was safe, Martha stepped out, allowing an idea to form in the juvenile mind that it would be very good if she came back and found the entire mass already turned into the pretty circles. He was going to do it even faster than her! 

Beaming at the prospect, Clark climbed higher. Straining to get there, he stuck his hands into the dough, tearing off a chunk and plopping it into a powdery white stuff like she did. The flour puffed up and tickled his nose. A sneeze raised a cloud that stuck to his face. Clark rubbed it, adding more sticky chunks to the forehead and chin. He had to hurry up. Forming the circles proved trickier than it looked. Maybe there was some softer stuff in a green bowl set farther up the countertop. The grabby, little hands tugged it closer, stubbornly refusing to give up on reaching inside the bowl set above his head. It tipped, ultimately spilling a glutinous substance all over the toddler.

A startled squeak at the plastic bowl smacking against his head, instantly brought his mother back. The incriminated toddler spread his hands apologetically and parroted a phrase he overhead from his father saying how someone goofed while trying to help.

"Nice one, Clark!"

To her credit, Martha did not get upset about the ruined desert. She laughed and took a picture, which she proudly demonstrated afterwards to all the close friends and relatives as an ultimate proof of how sweet and helpful her son was ever since he was a baby. 

A formation of a smug smile convinced Clark that Bruce had in fact seen the picture, and he inwardly groaned. Batman probably had a hidden camera on him to make copies and store them for blackmail. He was going to have the ample opportunity to observe that wry expression, being ushered into a chair across by Martha who assumed a seat beside her son. Leaning back against the chair and stretching his legs, Clark accidentally brushed the guest's foot under the table, prompting a quick reaction from Bruce who scooted away and tucked his legs under his own chair. The brief contact reminded Clark that he forgot to put his shoes back on.

"Are you comfortable?" Martha asked, determined to ensure nothing befell her son or grandchild. "Would you like a pillow for your back?"

"I'm all right," Clark pressed a kiss onto her cheek and whispered secretively enough to be heard by his father who didn't entirely approve of the excessive cuddling. "Fuss all you want. I will try to convince dad that I'll endure and won't go spoiled by it."

Bruce shot them a look like it was twenty years too late, though he probably meant the excessive niceness.

"That wasn't very nice, Mr Wayne," Martha admonished, intercepting it.

Bruce had enough grace to look sorry. The bothersome streak to chastise him ran in the family, starting with Clark criticising his far too rough interrogation methods. The atmosphere delved into appreciating the juicy steak melting against the tongue and a healthy serving of the generously buttered mashed potatoes. 

"It might be a little early, but do you know who to expect?" it was Jonathan who spoke up.

"I haven't looked," Clark confessed. Out of mild concern that it could be harmful, he wasn't going to use the special vision to find out. "I love whoever the child is and there is a certain appeal in being surprised." 

"Or it would be helpful, at the very least for the purchase purposes, to find out," Bruce interjected rather forcefully and their gazes locked over the table. "I doubt 'hello, I'm Clark Kent and I jump into things without looking' approach would be suitable." 

"I don't believe over-planning like our child is some sort of a tomato harvest to pop up on schedule is helpful either."

"It's called organisation. You may want to try it sometime to prepare for the contingencies rather than getting smacked by them over the head every time."

"What contingencies? It's not like our child will be born with an extra arm if we don't check their gender!" 

Martha took a sip from her cup, concealing a smile. "You've certainly known each other for a long time," she commented, which put an instant end to the bickering and both pretended to be deeply interested in their plate contents as it clearly implied 'and you're arguing like an old married couple.' 

For the desert Martha presented a crispy apple pie bountifully sprinkled with cinnamon. A mouth watering aroma tickled the senses. Bruce declined a piece, but she placed one on his plate anyway with a secretive smile like she saw through the ploy to leave an extra slice. “I baked another one,” she imparted, throwing a loving glance at her son who looked like he was having the best time of his life making quick work of his portion. No one was going to leave the table without having their fill. 

Along with her small wink, a warm sensation burrowed into his chest where it spread. After a short deliberation, Bruce named it contentment so alien to his soul. Sitting in the Kent circle, he felt almost normal. These were good people who didn’t grovel before him either in fear or begging for favours. The only thing they asked of him was to care about their son. They were willing to share everything with him as long as Bruce brought them no harm. Sitting in the peaceful corner of the world where the purity still remained untouched the hero gained an insight why Superman fought so hard to preserve this world because what he was seeing was beautiful. 

The conversation dwindled with him sinking into contemplation. Only an accidental glance at the clock showing after ten reminded Bruce that in these parts it was past bedtime. Bruce threw a questionable glance at Clark, wondering if the other was ready to leave or possibly wanted to stay for the weekend. Catching onto his desire to depart, Clark rose as well. 

Several minutes later, reinforced by the warm wishes and long-lasting hugs, the pair was walking in the submerging darkness across the field towards the glowing helicopter dot. Their hands were occasionally bumping, but neither felt like putting slightly more distance between them. Bruce made out his companion’s profile outlined by the slightly brighter sky. There was too little light to determine what Clark was thinking. Wrapped in the night's cocoon, while traversing the vast, empty space, there lingered intimacy. There were just the two of them, no one else but the stars about.

Clark stopped. On impulse, Bruce followed his suit as a hand descended onto his shoulder. That etched into the star sky face leaned towards him. Soft, sweetened by the cinnamon spice lips brushed his cheek for a fleeting moment. 

"Thank you for giving me this day. It was beautiful." 

Bruce didn’t respond. He didn’t have to because his madly fluttering heart must have given Clark the answer he wanted. Removing a hand from his shoulder, the reporter resumed their walk. Bruce followed a step behind, unaware of the ground beneath his feet.


	26. Chapter 26

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas everyone!
> 
> Show love and care to the loved ones and for the things you love! ♥

Surreptitiously, Clark smoothed the planes of the blue fabric. He turned sideway, closely studying his reflection in the mirror for the slightest changes. His body must have conspired with the parent to preserve the secrecy for as long as possible because his stomach remained flat into the twelfth week. The child must have inherited his father's desire to hide in the darkness. The superhero was slightly concerned that something was amiss. The medical records claimed the first signs showed around twelfth to sixteenth week. 

Whether the physical signs were there or not, Clark felt exposed in the tight clinging uniform like everyone was able to see right through him. Superman was quite nervous preparing to face the other heroes like nothing was happening before the medical check up with J’onn. To do so, he was paying respects to the Watchtower as Superman. Bruce and he were still working on setting up the proper equipment at the Batcave to be able to invite the doctor in the future rather than transporting to the tower. 

For the most part, Superman avoided the Watchtower to keep his promise to J’onn with too much temptation at their center of getting involved in some wide-scale disaster. There was a build up of energy that hummed under his skin demanding release, which happened whenever the hero remained idle too long. 

Since there was no point in stalling, Superman left his room and headed to the transport site where the dark knight was waiting impatiently in full Batman regalia, including the scowl and impenetrable as a wall countenance. Aren't you able to change into the red and blue suit in half a second that you've spent forever in your room, his grim look mutely accused. Beyond acknowledging Superman’s existence with a curt nod at home, Batman made no sign of noticing him as they transported and walked side by side within a frigid distance, painstakingly maintained like they've accidentally happened to be in the same corridor. 

Because he was the one who foremost didn’t want the others to know about the pregnancy, Clark thought he had no cause to be slighted, but that didn’t distance him from a painful jab when the corridor branched off and Batman headed to the monitor room without as much as a glance at him, leaving Superman alone to walk to the medical lab.

J’onn was waiting, wavering between concern and pleased excitement as he held onto a rooted view that children were a source of joy. Clark had explained the situation to him earlier that he found the father. The Martian's greeting was projected in a deep, comforting voice as he asked a few guiding questions concerning Superman’s health. He took greatest care to check the smallest signs after attaching the sensors to the hero’s body.

"I would like to perform an ultrasound test as well. Can you please recline on the table," J'onn requested.

Superman complied. The gel was cold and quite messy when the doctor slathered it over his stomach. The hero concentrated on the child's calming heartbeat, which had grown steady over the weeks, while the Martian glided a plastic transducer over his skin.

"J'onn, I would prefer not knowing the gender, but can you tell me a few details about the baby's current growth?" he requested. 

“Your child is healthy and has developed to a size of a small plum," the request pleased the Martian who shared the information with what in his regularly monotone inflections was excitement. "Its organs, the kidneys and intestines are changing. The child is beginning to practice reflexes like curling their fingers and toes, clenching eye muscles and making sucking movements with their mouth."

"Oh," Clark smiled at that, but he was disappointed a bit when J'onn added.

"I don't believe you will be able to feel the miniscule motions yet because the baby is still too small and there is still plenty of space for it to move about."

"Does it feel anything yet?"

"Yes. You will not feel the movement, however, the baby will wiggle if you poke your stomach." 

Superman wanted to pet his stomach, but there was the sticky gel on it, which J'onn began to remove before printing out the ultrasound picture for the interested parent.

“I would like you to rest as much as possible and have small, regular meals more often throughout the day,” J'onn surmised the data he collected from the sensors. "You’ve gone through a traumatic experience and suffered a great distress you are still recovering from. I believe this will soon be corrected and there is no need for alarm, but for your build you are slightly underweight.” 

“Thank you for telling me." It was disquieting knowing not everything was perfect and he could have done better in taking care of the baby, but he trusted J'onn. "I don’t think I will have trouble following this prescription. That’s all I ever do these days.”

J’onn sensed an undercurrent of self-depreciation that worried him. “Do not think any less of yourself just because at present you cannot help as much as you used to,” his conviction was projected into Superman’s mind. “You shouldn’t push yourself so hard. You are greatly appreciated for who you are.” 

“Please don't worry,” seeing as the examination was over and the sensors were detached, Superman pulled his top back on. “I will do a better job in listening to the internal signs and judge each situation separately, however, there is a lot I’m still capable of.” 

The Martian never doubted it. He intended to watch the hero closely and hoped to suffice as a doctor for the duration of the pregnancy, as much as the experience was new to him. Superman thanking him kindly before leaving, gave J'onn the confidence.

Rather then heading home, Superman went to the monitor room. The impassionate parting aside, he thought Batman would appreciate knowing that everything was fine, which he could have conveyed with a brief glance. 

Going up in the elevator, Superman found the tower center empty. The monitor room greeted the hero with an alarming message flashing across the screens that called nearly every League member away from their posts. It was a hurricane.

______________________________________________________________________________________________________

Those weather forecasters would come outside wearing skis in July! What should have dissipated as a class two storm, merged with an eastern front and exploded into a blooming class five hurricane that hit an unprepared coast with a howling, obliterating vengeance. The civilians, buckled down to weather the storm, were being urgently evacuated with the amounting tension bordering panic. 

But he was getting old, Batman noted sardonically. A weather beaten scar across his abdomen ached anew and disrupted his breathing. Most of his scars were just that, the ugly dents marring his flesh, but this one served as a constant reminder of his earlier encounter with the Joker and the lesson of never underestimating his lunacy. 

The wind howled louder than the evacuation sirens, tearing at the concrete building blocks like they were paper and vehemently hurling them across the moaning streets. The dark knight barely managed to pull aside a family as one of those projectiles crashed nearby, leaving a heavy dent in the asphalt. The tiny child’s fingers clutched onto his cape in terror as he grabbed the mother’s arm, guiding them towards a green bubble where Lantern was preparing to fly out another group closest to danger.

The wind grew in ferocity as an enormous column, arising from the massive waves and getting lost in the skies torn asunder by lightening, rapidly spun closer towards the city. It looked like the earth spat out the whirling disaster, unable to contain it in its womb.

“That thing’s getting here way too fast,” Green Lantern’s voice cracked through static. “Anybody got an idea how to stall it?” 

“I bet Superman would have one,” Flash yelled over the wind, having made an attempt earlier. Only Wonder Woman’s lasso spared him from getting sucked into the tornado. “Where is he anyway?” 

“You can’t expect him to babysit your ass every time the bad weather hits,” Bruce snapped. 

“All right, all right. Didn’t mean to trample your big, tough ego. We can handle anything he can,” Flash muttered, having enough fight with the wind than challenging Batman too, but as they both spoke their attention was captured by a dot appearing in the tremulous skies.

The wailing wind faded into the background and the raging elements fell away, incomparable in intensity to the internal upheaval. That idiotic, imbecilic… The dark knight listened to no more of Flash’s ramblings, his entire being fixated on the sight of a red cape torn at by the wind and a lone figure rapidly approaching the waterspout’s circumference. 

Batman ran towards it, ignoring Green Lantern’s urgent call ordering him to fall back. The crushing debris swam around him, none capable of reaching the dark knight like they were repelled by a powerful aura invoked by the inward pandemonium. The self-preservation instinct dulled into void. 

Stay the fuck away from a giant tornado! How hard could it be to figure it out? Batman cheered for a particularly ferocious gust of wind that pushed back the blue clad hero who paused in mid air fighting the natural forces before diving into the heart of a chthonic blender. 

There was nothing at first like watching someone enter a portal that sent them to the other side of life where they vanished for all eternity. Then, the gargantuan funnel inverted and tore away, rising higher above the waves that fuelled its strength. The vortex moaned. It scourged against the power bending its will to preserve and clawed at its existence. The funnel collapsed in a furious struggle, leaving but wind and thunder to wreck vengeance for its demise. 

Batman never stopped running. He kept an eagle eye on the blue clad figure that headed towards the coast and briefly disappeared from view by landing. Ignoring the chaos, the vigilante dashed through a gasping hole in the building, coming in the clear on the other side, having reached his target. 

Superman was on the ground, bracing against a torn wall. He looked up at Batman’s approach and a goofy smile was imparted on the dark knight. 

“I got dizzy spinning around,” Superman announced like he had just gotten off the merry-go-round. “Ouch. Now I know how the socks in the laundry machine feel.”

Batman stared at him incredulously, working on saying anything at all and wandering whether he could transplant the child into another host before happily strangling the infuriating alien. 

“This could have killed you both!”

Superman read the accusation on the dark knight’s lips as his voice cracked and got drowned out by the furious nature. “I’ve done this in Columbia before. I knew what I was doing,” he defended. 

“Did you think I wouldn’t notice that you still aren’t fully in control of your power?” Batman found the voice and it lashed out against the weather onslaught. “I did too. I see every change in you!” 

“It doesn’t just shut off at a snap of a switch. It dwindles whenever I’m fatigued. I once got caught by it and will not again now that I know what to expect.”

A gust of wind lifted Batman off his feet, reminding the heroes they were standing at the disaster’s focal point. Superman returned the vigilante to the ground by bracing a hand onto his shoulder. There were still plenty of civilians left in danger. This was hardly the time to solve the family problems. Allowing the dark knight to do as he willed, Superman took off, leaving Batman once more with everything unsaid. The dark knight punched the wall in frustration. He wasn’t letting that one go! He was going to give that airhead a piece of his mind once the storm exhausted itself. 

Many gruelling hours later when the natural fury subsided, Batman crawled into the shower at the Wayne Manor, leaving across the bedroom floor a trail of battered armour he sluggishly peeled off. The hot water hitting against his chilled skin massaged the sore muscles and penetrated the malignant ache in the joints, chasing away the discomfort. Bruce took his time, letting the soreness wash away. He came out refreshed with a towel in hand, drying out the dripping hair. 

“Enter,” he called out at a subdued knock, thinking it was Alfred coming to check whether after an adventure like that he came back without concealing any serious injuries.

It was Superman. The hero drifted into the room and ran a hand through the dark hair, which betrayed nervousness. His gaze travelled from the towel and slid along the dark knight’s bare chest, lingering for a brief moment, before bolting up to look directly at his face.

“Hi,” he greeted simply. “I thought you had more to say.”

Bruce moved across the room to stand directly in front of the slightly taller hero who did not have the sense to take half a step back at the close invasion of the personal space. Superman had a smudge across his cheek, marring his otherwise perfect features.

The Kryptonian had the gall to show up and ask for a confrontation! What was he suppose to do, chain down Superman to a bio bed in the Watchtower until he sprouted some equally unruly offspring? Nor had Batman volunteered to be a metahuman babysitter to keep Superman in check by controlling his every action, while detesting any form of control whenever someone tried to tell him what to do. Or he just had to trust Superman to know his limits, as incomprehensible as they were to him. 

Superman was still waiting for an eminent implosion. The sky-blue eyes widened in surprise as Bruce reached up and wiped away that little smudge with a towel from the fair face. 

“You…” the dark knight began and then pressed his weather beaten lips to Superman’s soft ones where lingered a hint of the hurricane like the later had been no more than a breeze.


	27. Chapter 27

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woohoooo! I did it!
> 
> The special chapter!
> 
> MERRY CHRISTMAS EVERYONE!
> 
> ♥♥♥

Superman's lips were pliant. They parted under the gentle ministrations before a hand came to rest on his partner's chest and Bruce was delicately pushed back within the arm's length. 

"Don't make fun," the hero accused. A blush was spreading across his cheeks and his blue eyes were bright with indignation. 

"How so?" Bruce managed, dragging his brain out of a spellbound haze invoked by those enticing butterfly touches.

"It's difficult to remain respectful and push away how much I'm attracted to you. Sometimes I want to kiss you so much. I'm not too successful at hiding my feelings. They were bound to slip out once we began living close, but that's no reason to tease me," Superman accused. "If you are upset because you believe I have needlessly endangered our child, then you should speak up, but don't kiss me when you don't feel the same." 

Clark had romantic feelings for him? The revelation wasn't real and magical like trying to scoop up the stars from the glimmering surface of the water where they reflected. While Bruce had taken notice of the occasional touches, the dark knight had attributed them to the desire for comfort during the pregnancy. Most likely this need for closeness was based on those hormones since comfort could have been sought in different ways including romantic means. Still, that did not alter what Bruce felt or the searing unrest the accusation provoked.

"You think I kissed you only to prove a point and not because I was driven to the brink of the insanity after spending five horrible days by your bedside, watching how you have struggled semiconscious and completely exhausted? Not because I saw you dive into a tornado right after?" Bruce hissed. "And then you assume that I feel nothing. Only you wouldn't notice how attractive you are. An alien crowd bid half a billion worth in precious stones to have you. I literally knocked someone out to stop that price from rising. They were willing to go far beyond, but I was willing to pay with my head. All the good it did me keeping it just to lose it every time you balance on the blade between life and death. You..." 

Those lips with a tang of the salty ocean wind covered his. They brushed against his mouth quizzically, touching fleetingly and allowing the breaths to take place in between like they sought their crumbling boundaries. 

"Thank you for worrying," Superman breathed against his lips.

Bruce wrapped his arms around his partner's neck in response, guiding their bodies closer. The heat of the palms coming to rest on his exposed back wiped away the trails of droplets sliding down his skin from the damp hair. 

Engulfed by the volatile forces, they sought no anger to sooth - rather looking for shelter from it. Their kisses were uncertain in their right, while patient and unceasing, gradually working on turning their knees into jelly and beaconing them to take several steps towards the bed where they carried on sitting side by side. 

Superman's fingers traced the outlines of his back, pausing to define every scar. Likewise, Bruce slid his hands under the blue top, grazing the well defined muscles and eventually tugging off the garment, letting it fall to the floor where piled the cape and towel. 

How much of the heart-melting tenderness could a kiss convey? They needed these kisses desperately to forgive and mend. To move on, the past pain had to fade behind. 

Guided to lie on his back with his partner hovering atop, Bruce willed tenderness to dominate over passion as his partner mapped his chest with the kisses, reaching the abdomen crossed by the hideous scar.

Bruce tensed when Clark focused on the ugly token. As much as his previous partners hailed him a sexy son of a bitch, during the intercourse they tended to avert their gaze from that scar or shortly studied it with a morbid curiosity before focusing on something prettier. Would Superman who had no such imperfections think it repulsive too? 

Bruce let out a hiss when a moist tongue trailed across the damaged flesh one end to another. Clark's lips closed around it, sucking and spreading pleasure to a part of him that had previously known only scorn and pain. When those lips took their fill, Bruce guided his lover to stretch atop of him and locked their mouths together away from temptation as the previous venture was trailing dangerously close to a part of him where the heat was starting to pool. Willing the arousal to fade, Bruce wrapped his arms around his partner and stilled as Clark placed his head into the crook of his neck and cuddled to him, relishing the feel of their bodies together.

"Are you comfortable like this?" Bruce prompted, concerned there might be pressure on the abdomen. "Would you like to lie side by side instead?" He pressed a kiss into the hurricane dishevelled hair as Clark muttered an affirmative. 

Holding on tight, Bruce marvelled at the serenity. His sexual encounters tended to be aggressive, taking a fast paced pleasure to mutual satisfaction. Not that there was no urge to tear off the remaining clothes and make his lover scream with pleasure, but lying by Clark's side Bruce was foremost tempted to pick up the towel and work on wiping away those little smudges and bruises left by their mission. Tuned out, he could be on his best behaviour. Then again, Superman could persuade devil himself to begin a devout career in preaching and zealously attending all Sunday Church masses. 

The tranquility didn't last long. Batman practically felt some insistent questions flying through his partner's mind. 

"Bruce, I want to know how you feel about this child," with a small intake of breath the Kryptonian spoke up. "While I'm glad you're the father and grateful how accepting you are, I know you haven't been given a choice. I've never heard you mention wanting children. This situation has been imposed." 

The dark knight wondered how to answer that without offence. Whenever young wards ventured into his life, it happened by dire circumstances without him making that pre-emptive choice of allowing them to enter his home. It was more like they were thrust under his wing and this child turned out no different. That didn't mean they were unwelcome, in the long run giving his life a greater purpose than dying one night to a stray bullet and hitting he grave out cold to be remembered with nothing but fear.

"Children do not fit in with my lifestyle," he opted for the shortest explanation given how a longer one threatened to raise the theme of death that he wanted none of while they were discussing the life ahead. "Whoever happens to survive by my side cannot be defenceless."

Sensing their conversation brought painful memories, Clark ran his hand through the damp tresses soothingly. "So, is a child a burden to you?" he asked tentatively. Having met a wonderful young man a few years back raised by Batman and through the occasional encounters learning that Dick grew up to be a good person, Superman was convinced that Batman greatly underestimated what he was capable of giving to his family, but that didn't mean adapting his life to the new people came without self-doubt. Reshaping one's soul came at the cost of a great emotional turmoil. 

"It's a heavy responsibility. I do not trust myself with carrying it out," Bruce confirmed his suspicion. 

"I think you'll be, you are, a caring father."

There was far more certainty in that statement than he deserved. Why did Clark always insist on seeing more good in him than there ever was? In this case, the vigilante was not going to complain. He did not wish to stress the Kryptonian with a misunderstanding that he was a burden or that their child was unwanted. 

"Thanks for the vote of confidence," he stated wryly, but Superman didn't allow it to be brushed off.

"I mean it," he insisted seriously. "It just seems like a shame..." Clark trailed off. Even without looking, Bruce sensed that his cheeks were obtaining a bright blush. 

Intrigued, the dark knight shifted to peer at his partner's face. "I do not bear well the half spoken truths," he declared. 

It was no use concealing anything once Bruce asked, so Clark pressed on with the courage he always mustered during the most difficult times.

"Even though it happened the way it did, I always believed with all my heart that conceiving a child is a special moment that must be held dear. It's a shame that I remember nothing of the experience," he revealed sadly, finding understanding when the dark knight's grip tightened around him. 

"Nor is it a memory that makes me proud," Bruce admitted. His breath caught when his partner looked into his eyes, the cornflower depths of Superman's gaze brimming with a scalding sincerity that burned like a sparks cascade straight through his nerve endings. 

"We can make better memories," Clark said simply. 

Superman remained still, waiting for Bruce to consider the invitation. They shuddered in long anticipated pleasure when it was accepted with a tentative kiss that grew in intensity. Their tongues intertwined with an inquisitive ardour. The throaty sounds escaped the lovers as their groins grinded together. Clark's hand slipped in between them beyond his partner's pants waistband. His fingers closed around the shaft that swelled under the vigorous ministrations. 

"There is no need for protection," Clark informed in between the kisses, although that part had completely slipped from his lover's mind. "The childbearing is too demanding on the body. There is no chance for our people to conceive during the pregnancy." 

Getting his hands off his gorgeous partner barely long enough to grab a lubricant from a nightstand, Bruce resumed the fervent exploration. He tugged the blue leggings off, growing hot with passion. That hand stroking him with a lustful purpose was driving the rational thought away, awakening the instincts to possess thoroughly the beautiful being that moved so sensually in his arms. In spite of the fervent want dominating their love making, Bruce didn't miss a beat when his lover tensed slightly when his generously coated fingers delved into that special spot. 

With the lust enveloping his brain like a cloud, Bruce mustered enough restraint to desist. He cupped his lover's face and looked into Clark's eyes, making sure no half truth passed between them. Those eyes were hazed with desire, but also an innocent apprehension shone in the heavily lidded blue orbs.

"How much experience do you have," Bruce whispered huskily. Soothingly, he stroke with a thumb the coloured cheek, wishing away his lover's fidgeting. 

"I've always been given control before," Clark shared. "Subconsciously, the fertility knowledge must have been there because letting someone take me always felt different. It was more meaningful than satisfying the physical needs. I suppose, without knowing, I was looking for someone special who could be a father to my baby." 

Clark was wiling to share this gift with him. The meaning of this gesture of trust was humbling. They were not going to proceed if there was even a shadow of reservation. "We won't do anything that makes you even the slightest bit uncomfortable," Bruce assured gently. He pressed a kiss onto his lover's forehead, wondering where he left that electric shocker to disentangle himself from the bed. His cock throbbed and was hard as a heated iron against the clothes confines, seeking release. Superman's words reached him through the haze. 

"You are special," Clark whispered, blushing scarlet. "I'm worried that due to the inexperience I might disappoint you." He must have been too obvious and apprehensive that Bruce saw through him.

"You cannot disappoint me," Bruce whispered breathlessly. "I cannot fathom what I've done to deserve your trust and you're worried about disappointing me, you who puts his entire heart into everything."

Their lips met again, seeking to claim the crystal moments taken away by a chaotic ill turn like it was in their power to curb a window in time, and maybe it was in their power. Bruce sought that special spot again. His lover bucked against him with a pleading whimper to be filled. He obeyed, reversing their position and placing a pillow under his lover's back. The legs parted for him instinctively. Bruce placed a kiss onto a bent knee and sought out his partner's eyes again. Finding a burning consent in them, he slid in with one smooth motion. The inner muscles contracted around his shaft, shooting a spiralling pleasure through his body. 

Did their child feel the father joining it inside? Was it lulled by the rhythmic thrusts rocking them?

The lovemaking was slow, allowing tenderness to linger as their bodies sung in harmony. The climax built up gradually with each deep thrust, bringing them closer to the edge. Bruce came first, taking his partner with him. His name echoed with reverence to haunt his dreams.

"Bruce..." 

As the waves of ecstasy subsided and morphed into restfulness, those blue eyes sparkling with love focused on him. Bruce was caressed by a sunny smile.

"That was lovely," Clark whispered with a hoarse note entering his voice. He made a protesting sound when his partner moved away. His lover reached out and touched him reassuringly. 

“I want to be sure I didn’t leave you sore,” Bruce explained, returning quickly with an ointment jar. His partner squirmed at a sleek finger entering him to apply a soothing balm. Completing the ministrations, Bruce stretched out next to his lover, guiding Clark to place his head into a familiar spot at the crook of his neck like it was always meant to be there. 

They were sticky with sweat and semen, but neither felt like moving. Bruce cradled two very important people in his life. Fighting a hurricane left its mark because the dark knight didn’t fight when sleep reached out for him. Willing the moment to last, Clark watched him for a long time, eventually succumbing to dreams.

Bruce woke up to a grey cropped morning at the insistent beeping. Most reluctantly releasing Clark from his hold, he rolled off the bed to grab the communicator. The message came from Dick. 

Clark was sprawled across his bed temptingly. The thin sheet covering him lay askew, revealing a hip and a toned leg. It didn’t settle entirely right that he wasn’t going to be there when his lover woke up. This was a fact of life. Without disturbing his partner’s rest, the dark knight responded to the call of duty.


	28. Chapter 28

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HAPPY NEW YEAR!

When Clark woke up, he was alone. The enveloping sense of comfort and security was missing. Had he not been resting in Bruce's room, the metahuman would have attributed the previous night to a figment of his imagination. As amazing as their lovemaking had been, it hadn't made their relationship clearer or whether they were going to build a romantic relationship from this point. Whatever the case, Clark had no regrets. They both badly needed to release the sexual tension that had been growing between them and to resolve the fear of physical contact. 

Most likely, Batman was called away by his numerous duties, but this also could have been a way to avoid a soggy talk after wanting no more than one night. It would have been dishonourable to blackmail the vigilante. Clark wasn’t going to pressure him. He didn’t want Bruce to feel obligated to deepen the relationship just because he carried his child. Clark was simply grateful for the love and caring his partner showed him. 

As there was no reason to stay in the bedroom when he had no idea whether he was still welcome, Superman collected his uniform from the floor. He would have preferred to shower before pulling the suit over the sticky skin, but without the owner it seemed inappropriate to use their bathroom. Conscious of how rumpled his clothes were Superman took special care not to run into Alfred, floating rather than walking towards his room. 

Having successfully avoided the butler, Clark took time in the shower washing away the traces of their lovemaking before climbing into his bed and curling around a pillow for comfort. He began reading more of the computer files, brought from the Fortress of Solitude, making sure he didn’t miss another quirky Kryptonian habit. 

Most of them were more or less decent and similar to human habits. There was also an explicit chapter about the sexual urges that came around fourth to seventh month experienced by majority. Some of those needs were depicted as rather demanding. A large part of the chapter described various recommendable positions and items to make the experience more pleasurable. Clark skimmed the chapter, sincerely hoping he belonged to the minority and then slammed the reading shut in embarrassment as some of those pictures were quite explicit. Batman wasn’t likely to be thrilled if he got pounced by a horny alien. 

“Please behave little one,” he implored, closing his eyes to concentrate on the child’s heartbeat. To get through this they needed each other, more so when his relationship with the dark knight remained fragile and shrouded in mystery. Clark didn’t know what to expect from Bruce. He only knew that he was drawn to the man. He hoped to gain a better understanding of the fellow hero gradually as they lived together, but Bruce remained as unreachable as ever. 

During the next several days, Batman hadn’t showed up at the Wayne Manor at all.

________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

The kumaiva craving was back. To appease it through subsidiary means, Clark travelled to the Gotham central supermarket rich in variety of products and an extensive supply of fruit. 

The physical telltale signs of his pregnancy were gradually appearing as well. Just lately, he had a conversation with Alfred to accommodate the changing situation. 

"Can you please let me know whether there is a place in your garden where I can dig a big hole?" Clark asked over a cup of tea in the morning so thoughtfully provided by the butler. "I need a covert way to travel back to my job at the Daily Planet since I'm afraid soon I won't be able to fly openly. Making an underground tunnel will help." 

While the reporter could easily live another half a year without raising any suspicion other than an assumption that he gained weight, Superman's skin tight suit instantly revealed any changes to his body and a baby bump certainly didn't fit with the superhero physique. Unfortunately, travelling by air at the very least in the crowded areas was becoming less of a possibility when his abdomen lost firmness and obtained a softer outline.

"I know a good place at the empty garden shed," Alfred offered a perfect solution, making the sacrifice of altering the manor's untouched landscape. 

"That would work well,” Clark said appreciatively, realising that making changes to the garden was Alfred’s prerogative. “Thank you." 

Since the change, Clark kept touching the subtly increasing bump, still in wonder that he was capable of bearing life. This life certainly required a lot of nourishment as a light rumbling in his stomach announced. Clark just finished paying for a handful of ripe mangos and waited for the clerk to pack them when an unearthly racket akin to an enraged bull demolishing the store property reached him.

“Why you rotten, mangy bag of fleas sprouted by a dumpster dog born out of wedlock! I ought to flay your diseased hide and hang it on a hook as a warning!” 

Each incensed scream was punctuated by a resounding crash. Rushing to the scene of the crime, Clark saw a bulky, bug-eyed man in a guts stained apron, militantly operating a severely spiked broom and aiming to flatten a sprinting ball of fur that rolled ahead of him. Each slap tossed the neatly stacked piles of nuts and oranges into every direction. 

Having cornered the offender, the store clerk swung his weapon of retribution to pulverise the blasted feline when his way to justice was obstructed by a quirky four-eyes stepping in between and getting smacked over the head in cat’s place. 

“Excuse me…”

Rather than yelping in surprise at being struck or muttering an odd apology for not watching where he was going, the man aimed a scattered-minded smile at him like he couldn’t understand something. 

“Is it truly necessary to harm the animal?”

The clerk’s face coloured to rival a nearby stack of eggplants. “This pest got its thieverous paws into the delicacies section!” he bellowed, never having doubted that his actions could be disputed. “He ate three kilos of the pristine caviar! Do you have any idea how much that costs?!” 

Clark doubtfully glanced at the scrawny bag of bones huddling in the corner that didn’t look like it weighted few hundred grams and questioned how three kilos could fit inside it. 

“Who's going to pay for the damage?” the clerk raged.

His inquiry was left unsatisfied because the creature decided that it would be sinful to waste a perfectly good distraction. It bolted between their feet and leapt atop of the wobbling crates towards an open crack that led outside. The window it jumped through moaned under the broom’s assault. 

Boiling with ire, the clerk rapidly turned to hold the interfering visitor accountable only to discover that both of his sources of trouble have vamoosed. 

Having weaseled out of paying for his dinner, the culprit landed into a half frozen puddle behind the store where it trashed mewling pitifully. The water wasn’t knee deep, but it was as deep as a lake to the tiny animal. 

Ignoring the chilly water soaking right through his shoes, Clark fished the distressed creature out of the puddle and stuffed it into his shirt before urgently calling for a taxi. The kitten didn’t protest upon being thrust into the cramped surroundings. The shivering ball pressed tight against his skin, sponging up the body warmth throughout the ride. 

Receiving no complaint, Clark carried the kitten inside the manor where in the bathroom he finally pried the feline from his shirt accommodations. The trembling, muddy mass did not take kindly to a warm stream of water filling the sink, having barely escaped the watery death. It yowled pitifully and attempted to sink little claws into the saviour’s sweater. The superhero’s reflexes were faster. He dodged the grab and carefully lowered the protesting kitten into the half-filled sink. Scooping up the soap, he rubbed it into the matted fur. 

The stray after waging a grimy existence in the dumpster without a single bath in its entire life was glowering at him. Its disposition softened when Clark picked up a fluffy towel and wrapped the kitten in it. 

“It’s not that I’m against the strays enjoying a full buffet once in a while, but stealing will only lead you into the messes you may not always be able to clean up with soap,” Clark told it, carrying the kitten into his room. 

Rubbing the fur dry, it occurred to him that bringing a street animal into someone’s home was unlikely to be appreciated by the owner. Aside from the bats that were the original masters of the caves below, Batman never mentioned a single pet nor desire to have one. 

Trying to avoid someone surely brought them to his door after unsuccessfully trying to find that person for a week. Clark jumped guiltily at a brisk knock, which he recognised as Batman’s. 

“Come in,” he called, dropping the towel over the kitten and trying to sit casually on the bed. That ticklish sensation when a swarm of butterflies was fluttering in his stomach emerged at the sight of a broad shouldered figure framed by the doorway. The memory at the rightness of those hands sliding down his body was still vivid and so was a pang from Bruce disappearing right after without an explanation. 

The dark knight was studying him as well. At the moments like these, Clark’s senses were quite acute. He could pick up the rustling of mice far in the Gotham outskirts sewers. These scattered sounds were helping with distracting him from the surmounting tension that was quite painful like it had the power to wedge little cracks in his heart.

“I’ve been wondering whether you ever displayed any healing powers,” true to his principles, Batman proceeded to gain information before giving anything away.

“Do you speak of healing the broken bones?” Clark replied thoughtfully, pushing away disappointment that Bruce didn’t address their personal relationship rather than talking about his powers. He understood the question had to be important. “I wish I could say yes. I never had such abilities.”

“Do you think it might be possible to gain them due to the body changes during the pregnancy, potentially to protect yourself?” 

“I can check the Fortress files. I’ve encountered no such information so far. Not that anyone from Krypton even lived under the benefit of a yellow sun. Theoretically, it isn’t impossible.”

“I have an old scar that never healed properly due to a lingering poison in the wound. It can be troublesome on a bad day,” while Bruce was still looking at him that action came with a conscious effort. “Or rather… it used to shoot pain through my abdomen in nasty scrapes. It doesn’t anymore. Not after you... touched it.”

The unspoken night hung above them, present and yet as distant as starlight lost in the unreachable space and time. Since Bruce wasn't going to speak about it, it was unfair to harass him with his demands and delusions about forming a romantic attachment. 

“Was that wound poisoned?" Clark forced his mind to address the matter at hand. The implication concerned his health. "Do you believe my salvia might contain an antiseptic?"

"I believe it's possible and would like to examine a sample at the lab. Can you spit into this jar?” offering the container, the dark knight seemed relieved that he didn't mention that night. His attention wavered as Clark returned the jar, looking at the bed space next to his guest. 

Clark nearly groaned. He should have known the squirming ball of energy wasn't going to stay put. The towel was suspiciously crawling across the bed and an irritably twitching black tail emerged from its folds. Acknowledging that they were busted, Clark gathered the kitten onto his lap. 

“He nearly drowned in a puddle. I didn’t want him to freeze to death afterwards.” 

The vigilante’s lips tightened in disapproval. "These miniature predators shed fur and hunt bats.” Bruce glanced at the kitten like he knew all its sins and no confession was mandatory. “I want it out of this house immediately.” 

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have brought him.” Clark dropped the kitten into the startled home owner’s arms like he was saying execute him as you will. “Would you be so kind as to leave him outside yourself?” 

“Me?!” Bruce hissed scandalised. The tiny ball of fur huddled in the palm on his hand was staring at the vigilante with an enormous green eyes. He thrust it back onto Clark’s lap. “You dragged it here, you figure out how to get rid of it!” He was subjected to a no less pleading azure stare by looking away from the feline. 

“I know I’m being silly, nonetheless, the maternal instinct must be acting up. The kitten is small and defenceless like a child. I feel horrible throwing it out into the cold.” 

“Then hoist it on one of your colleagues,” the vigilante recommended irritably. “You have three weeks to ensure it doesn’t get thrown back into dumpster.” 

“Thank you for understanding.”

An inking of a smile, which radiance crept into the bloodstream and threatened to have him offering to move an entire alien zoo from the Fortress of Solitude to his home, set Bruce fleeing from it. 

“Those bats can stand up for themselves just fine,” Clark informed the kitten as the host left them. He felt about as secure as the kitten, expecting to be tossed out on his ear any day. “You’d be wise to stay away from them.” 

The kitten’s ears twitched with interest every time the winged creatures were mentioned.

“Bat,” said Clark.

The kitten looked up at him alertly like he was asking what it is the metahuman wanted. 

“You like this name, don’t you, Bat?”

The kitten butted its head against his stomach in agreement. His whiskers twitched. Sniffing the developing bump, he welcomed the new acquaintance with a resonating purr and marked the family by rubbing against the belly. 

“Don’t count on it too much,” Clark sighed, wishing he could keep the kitten longer. There was something therapeutic in the warm mass snuggling against him. “You heard the owner. What am I going to do with you?”

The kitten curled up on his lap with very little interest in that dilemma and an ignorant disregard for the nearest future. Saved from the broom and a freezing death, he was simply happy.


	29. Chapter 29

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This update didn't come easily. I can't say I haven't considered deleting the work or heavily cutting a few previous chapters. I'm conflicted about this fic's future.

While Bat was graciously keeping his new friend company, he picked up a few habits such as turning the journalist's clothes into snug nests. A couple of weeks later he was curled up on Clark's bed with a morning sun shining through the window and nicely warming his back. The kitten was purring, having claimed one the shirts from a discarded stack on the bed that no longer fit. 

The shirt Clark had on wasn't faring much better. The threat of having to go shopping loomed from a tiny dot on a horizon to a cloud hanging right above his roof. Since the main goal of the purchases was to conceal his figure, there was no point in visiting the trendy stores. The lacklustre experience of walking through the long isles filled with the substandard merchandise was mind numbing until he picked something ill-fitting and most likely in a washed out colour to have the cashier click their tongue in disapproval at the checkout after measuring him with a critical look. 

Clark tried to negotiate with the shirt one more time. The material wrinkled, made a threatening noise like it wanted to rip and the buttons refused to remain together. Even those baggy shirts that used to hang loose, tucked around his waist snugly. Clark gave up and with a heavy sigh took off the disagreeable garment. His other attire wasn't cooperating either with the changing body. 

Although his hips hadn't grown, the waistline expanded and the pants waistband pressed tight against his stomach. It was harder to spend an entire day at the office when his insides were getting squished, as well as difficult to relax at the manor since the reporter didn't feel comfortable enough to wear home clothes. 

Clark opened the top button and pulled down the zipper to rub the stomach and relax the constricted muscles. A knock made him jump. A turned over tea tray rattled down. 

Immediately, the door swung open. Bruce charged in like he excepted to find a swarm of armed to the teeth villains threatening to turn his bedroom into an asylum. 

The reporter swiftly pulled the shirt closer to his chest, ensuring it covered him below the waist. Entertaining the visitors with a fly open was truly disquieting. He felt exposed when the vigilante's gaze after sweeping the room for trouble stopped on him, almost burning his skin like a pale ice as it slid along his chest and shoulders. 

"It's not an invasion aimed to destroy your property, just me having a wardrobe malfunction. It seems, I must go shopping for maternity clothes, so to speak," the reporter explained the small stacks of clothes scattered around the room, discomfort making him speak faster. "Joy," he added with a funeral intonation. "I don't even know where I can find something that fits. A lot of my stuff is extra large as it is." 

"Gotham Central Mall," Bruce suggested, dropping a fighting stance once he confirmed that his home wasn't under attack. The fellow hero did look quite dejected by the prospect. Understandably so. Everyone went shopping in order to beautify themselves. Even if one wasn't vain, it had to be a miserable experience buying things that you knew made you unsightly. Maybe it was possible to find a suitable compromise and create an alternative look that would suit Clark better without hinting in any way at his superhero persona. The impulse to go together surprised Bruce as much as made sense. It would have been strange for the reporter to visit the elite mall without his glib billionaire boyfriend throwing piles of cash at him, supposedly to seduce and dazzle.

"Isn't that where most of your friends shop?" 

The press was familiar with the famous mall, that had over a hundred shops and covered over a kilometre, due to a number of scandals associated with it. The price range was way out of the modest reporter's league too. 

"A portion of it is owned by me, not to mention all of its security. We'll have no trouble and no extra questions." 

"I can't afford it." 

Used to cleaning up his messes, Clark timely stopped himself from reaching out mechanically to pick up the tray he dropped. The shirt nearly slipped out of his grasp and slid a bit lower.

"I don't want to compare how much money each of us has nor do I have a doubt that you're self-reliant," Bruce averted his gaze, catching himself staring. "I had something to do with your need for a new wardrobe. Since you're dealing with all the cramps and nausea, I could contribute by showing you around the mall and buying a few things. I would appreciate it if you'd allow me to do that much." 

"Don't feel guilty. When I was unwell, you helped me recover. That's more than enough," Clark said mildly. It was tempting to run a soothing hand across Bruce's cheek at a flicker of disquiet and little bit of sadness that his offer could be rejected, though the sentiment was soon submerged in the depth of his soul. "What I would like a lot more is to have your company. Since you're volunteering to go shopping with me, I'll be happy to accept."

Bruce nodded tersely, glad to acquire consent. "Your wardrobe won't last much longer. Unless you have plans, we can go today."

"I can be ready in a few minutes." 

Only when the vigilante left to change as well, did Clark realise they have forgotten to discuss why Bruce came by. It must have been important since Batman never came to his room for fun. Whatever it was, the dark knight was going to bring it up later and there was no sense wasting time thinking about it. Clark didn't want to test Batman's patience by spending all day staring at his dysfunctional closet and picked a stretched, bog coloured sweater because the dress shirts weren't cooperating with him anymore. In the attire suitable for painting a fence, he was going to stick out at the place where everyone was going to be dressed like Bruce Wayne, chic and perfectly ironed. 

For the last part of his preparation, Clark removed a brown envelope securely hidden in one of the drawers. There was something he wanted to give Bruce, but felt quite shy and the timing never seemed right. He sincerely hoped at the mall he would find a good moment. 

Half and hour later, the pair was dropped off at the mall's front entrance. The dark marble floor paved a wide alley, in the middle of which towered the Christmas trees beautified by toys and ribbons. To the sides ran the boutiques. The winter sales season was in progress. The freshly redecorated shops were selling merchandise. Deciding that the atmosphere was designed to be pleasant along with being posh, Clark picked the nearest store that had a formal attire on display. 

At the entrance they were met by a manager encased in a black skirt and a ruffle embroidered blouse, surrounded by a cloud of mint. "Mr Wayne!" her heels zealously clicked on the tiles. The eagerness to be of service gushed forth full force. "How can we help you?" 

"It's not me who will have the pleasure of your company," Bruce conquered her with a glib smile. "Mr Kent is looking for something to wear at work," he wrapped an arm around Clark's waist, squishing the journalist to his side. "I trust you will do a splendid job assisting this very special person." 

The mint smile concentrated on the reporter as the manager gestured for the sales associates to approach on the double, convinced by an eloquent look from Mr Wayne saying, 'I don't want a speck of dust to land on my date in your care.' 

"I need to send my watch in for repair," he told Clark. "It's a store next door. Would you mind if I briefly leave you?"

Receiving an ok, Bruce stepped outside. A glance back showed Clark surrounded by three blonds fluttering around him like hummingbirds. A smirk threatened to emerge at the reporter's bewilderment as he tried to listen to an overabundance of information coming from three sides at once. He wasn't used to this kind of attention.

Thinking that his companion was going to be all right, Bruce went through the jewellery store to the counter. His watch was stalling a fraction ever since a glass of champagne got spilled onto it during a party. Having presented a lifetime warranty, Bruce looked around the store idly while the sales associate filled out the necessary documentation and papers to forward the important client to the front of the line. 

The adjoining section sold jewellery. The display stationed at the back for safety contained the wedding bands that dazzled the visitors with an unearthly shine. 

Precisely because it didn't stand out next to the lavish multi-carat rings, a matching set drew his attention. One band was pure gold, ingrained with the specks of diamonds that glimmered mysteriously like stardust thrown onto the smooth surface by a passing comet. It must have been the conversation with Jonathan Kent about the marriage making a strong impression because he pictured that ring on Clark's hand. Bruce shoved the vivid image away. It was just a beautiful piece of jewellery that had a matching counterpart of black diamonds on the other band.

Bruce turned away firmly. The paperwork was completed. He signed and collected a copy. Out in the hall he was met by Clark who walked briskly towards him empty handed and clearly ruffled.

"Have the suits transformed into shape shifting aliens and tried to strangle you?" Bruce quirked an inquisitive eyebrow.

"That would have been a lot easier to handle. I barely got away! I did not anticipate the sales associates to be so... grabby." Apparently, Clark didn't share his amusement because noticing a smirk he quipped. "I can't have people invading my personal space, not three at the same time. I don't want to be helped into a suit or have my sweater pulled off! Least someone grabs a bicep where supposedly they should find fat." 

"I only wanted them to be cordial. The manager was too eager to please and must have misunderstood me," Bruce said, not sounding too sorry since he got subjected to an entertaining display of Superman running away from something faster than from the Kryptonite. 

"Should we visit anymore of your stores, will you kindly pass a message to your sentinels, 'This is Clark Kent and he's very shy. Please allow him plenty of personal space.' rather than 'This is oh so special friend, strip him naked and re-wrap in ribbons.'"

"Don't be so critical. The help didn't know about your odd preferences. Some men enjoy being fawned over by three model-like blonds." 

"Sometimes I marvel at my preferences too," Clark said mildly, looking directly at his escort. 

Bruce's colour changed slightly and he turned abruptly, heading deeper into the mall. Clark was about to follow when something small bumped into his leg. Spotting a child no older than four he smiled at her gently and looked around for a parent since no one was rushing to collect their wayward offspring. The mall customers calmly went about their business. None of them looked like they were interested in the little girl.

The child must have stumbled into him unwittingly because a dropped doll lay by his foot and the little owner was three steps away. Remembering not to trust strangers and unable to leave without her favourite toy, the girl regarded him wide-eyed. 

"Hi there," to appear less threatening, Clark took a seat on the floor. The girl looked at the stranger mistrustfully as he picked up the doll and carefully held it out towards her. "Your dolly had a little fall. She says she's ok, but she really wants you to give her a hug." 

The girl stuck her thumb into her mouth uncertainly. The man had a very kind smile. He was looking at her nicely like her daddy when he was proud of her. The blue eyes behind the large glasses held something that made her want to trust the adult. Shuffling forth, the child reached out for the toy timidly and clutched it close. 

"She says, thank you," the reporter prompted gently, "and she also wants a hug from your mommy. Do you know where your mommy is?" 

"She wouldn't know. We should take her to the security. They can make a loudspeakers announcement," Bruce interrupted. "What is your name?" 

Combined with a sharp tone, the logic and good intentions were lost on the child. Ignoring the inquiry, the girl lifted her arms mutely, asking Clark to pick her up. A small nose buried in a crook of his neck with a sniff as he did.

"We'll find your mommy, sweetheart," the hero promised, cradling the child to his chest. 

Superman opened his mind to the inflow of voices echoing around the mall. There were many. No matter how often he practiced, the experience always threatened to overwhelm him. The hero filtered the irrelevant joyful intonations, listening for the distressed notes. "Second floor," he said a minute later, isolating a teary voice calling for Mary. 

Bruce had to hurry to catch up with the wide strides as the reporter swiftly walked towards the escalator. 

"You're a little traveller, are you not?" Clark patted the child's back reassuringly as they walked up the moving stairway. "You've ventured far from your mommy. She'll be very happy to have you back."

As Superman promised, they found the frantic mother upstairs. Wiping away the leaking mascara with a handkerchief, she thanked them dearly for returning her offspring and held onto her daughter's hand very tight. 

Bruce stood aside during the emotional exchange. Watching how the child giggled as the hero tapped her nose sweetly and waved bye with a goofy lopsided smile, brought clarity. Clark was ready to become a very attentive and loving parent. It was imprinted in the soft gestures and an inward glow as he chuckled at something the girl told him. The dark knight's gaze travelled from the handsome face down to the delicate stomach curve where their child was hidden from the world, growing apace. An overwhelming emotion twisted his heart laced with doubt. Bruce didn't know whether he was equally up for the challenge.


	30. Chapter 30

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to thank you guys for your kind and understanding comments. Writing isn't smooth for this fic at present, but I'm happy that a lot of people at still reading it, and some people (ahemclawandherunknownnickname) are posting most blazing in encouragement speeches.

Long after Clark had lost count of the endless stores they were visiting, the pair decided to take a break at a restaurant overlooking the hall. The spot had a colourful pastry display at the front and a kitchen separated from the curious onlookers. 

Grateful for a respite, Clark settled into a high back chair gingerly. 

"We've been walking a lot," he explained when Bruce looked at him in question, having noticed the discomfort. "After so much activity my lower back muscles are acting up a little, especially whenever I need to bend down."

"How long has this been going on?"

Clark waited before responding because a comely waitress floated over. She had pretty curls that bounced as she diligently scribed their order into a notepad. 

"Since the growth spurt started," Clark resumed their conversation once the waitress disappeared to pass their order to the cook. "The baby is seeking more comfortable accommodations by shifting my internal organs. I have occasional cramps. It's nothing serious." 

"A massage therapy might reduce the discomfort."

"I rather not have strangers touching me," Clark declined. It was too risky to accept any social services that required the others to be close. The sales associates poking him all day made Superman uncomfortable enough. He was going to have dreams about the endless racks and shelves for days. 

When Clark agreed to this enterprise, he hadn't considered that Bruce Wayne did everything thoroughly. There were winter clothes and spring clothes, and then as it turned out having shoes one could slip onto their foot without bending down to tie the shoelaces was a must. Clark wasn't sure what their trip amounted to because most of the purchases were either sent to the tailor for modifications to accommodate him later on in the pregnancy or to be delivered directly to the Wayne Manor from the store. From what they've kept, Bruce refused to let him carry a single bag. 'Your hands need to be free to try on more outfits.' Bruce cut off any protest and that was final. 

The overwhelming experience and minor discomfort faded every time the reporter caught Bruce looking at him. The regular disapproval Superman's plans were often awarded with by the caped vigilante was missing today in their interaction. There was a veiled amusement lingering in the pools of aquamarine as Clark was twisting out of another pair of the assistant's hands. Most likely, Bruce was staring at him because the reporter's fashion choices were making someone who naturally had an excellent taste roll their eyes. The Kryptonian didn't mind his companion having a laugh at his expense as long as they got to spend time together. While the reporter was admiring the beautiful mall interior, the dark knight's attention was fixated on him. The silence didn't bother Clark for once because it wasn't accusing. If he had to describe it, 'protective' fit that attention the best. The reporter's thoughts circled back about his mission to hand Bruce the envelope.

On impulse, Clark reached out and claimed his companion's hand that was resting atop of the white cloth. "Bruce, I just wanted to thank you for this day. It's wonderful spending time with you. I know how busy you are, all the more valuable it is that you had an idea to show me the mall. I would have been lost without you. I hope you do not regret it." 

The dark knight offered a cautious nod. "It's been bearable," he responded, prying his hand away. "Excuse me." Bruce rose abruptly and headed for the bathroom. 

The flustered departure was quite confusing. The waitress brought their order. Clark waited, unwilling to start without his companion. As he curiously observed the place, there was a stirring nearby and trouble headed towards the restaurant. 

There were three brainless buffs in sleeveless shirts to show off the tattoos in spite of the cold season surfing the premises like they owned them. They drank beer, tossing the bottles onto the spotless floor, and looked like they've already had more than enough alcohol. 

"Why the heck is this place playing country music today? That's the lamest selection ever," one of them complained. "It's usually modern." 

"Some corn day, I guess? Oh well, there are other ways to have fun." 

They spotted a pretty waitress setting the tables and cruised up to her.

"Hey baby!" one of them slapped her bum. "We want some drinks and prompt service. Be a dear, fetch us something quick and then you can chill on my lap."

The girl jumped and tried to get around an aggressive customer. His arms trapped her like the cage bars as the hooligan leaned onto the table, pressing her against it."

"I beg your pardon, fine gentlemen. I believe you're mistaken about your whereabouts, given the type of services you seek. This is a reputable mall. The strip bar is in the slums on the other end of the city. Perhaps, you should trash, I mean, crash there." 

The trio turned to face whoever was giving them the educational instructions and their eyes climbed to their foreheads. The unremarkable man reminded them of the kids they used to beat up and stuff into lockers back at school. The calm tone accompanying the recommendation was infuriating.

"Do I hear some four eyes schnook talking about sex?" one of them asked incredulously as they menacingly advanced towards the table.

"Nah, he probably doesn't know what he's talking about cause if I were an ugly girl I wouldn't do him for a million dollars."

They examined the faded sweater and the worn shoes like those were meant for the lower life forms. One of the hoodlums put a foot up on the chair next to Clark and leaned onto it as his buddies encircled him. Behind their back, the waitress ran to summon security.

"Hey weirdo, I think you're a little lost. This is a mall, not a bum house. Do tell, did you steal your meal or got it for charity?" 

"As a matter of fact, neither..."

"Then, you're lost! It must be the faulty glasses that led you to the wrong place and prompted to open your mouth to yap at your superiors like that."

"Let's examine them!"

One of the hoodlums snatched his glasses. 

"Please return those," Clark made a vague attempt to get his glasses back when a hand settled onto his face and pushed him back into the chair.

"Yep, they're faulty!" the block announced. "I'll fix them for you."

He flung the glasses on the floor and stomped on them. The passers-by threw concerned looks their way, but they were afraid to draw the attention from the violent trio.

"You broke them," the brunette pouted. "How is he going to see his meal now?" 

"Look, there are two. Maybe he was waiting for someone?"

"Maybe he's so ugly, she bailed on him before she even came!"

"Let's help him finish the meal and send him home before he embarrasses himself waiting for Mrs Right."

One of the hooligans grabbed the plate and smashed it into Clark's face as his buddy squashed the other meal into his chest. 

"There you go! Now, you can go home!" 

A huge shove, toppled the chair. Clark gasped as he fell onto his back amongst the plate shards. He hadn't anticipated a minor fall would wind him so. Instinctively, he curled into a ball, protecting his abdomen and expecting more retribution. 

The blows never fell. Instead of them came a chocking sound like someone's throat was getting torn out. Through the disarrayed bangs, Clark chanced to look up just as one of his assailants was tossed across several tables. The troublemaker crashed into a wall of desserts, a pink frosting cake splattering him head to toe. His pal fell victim to a similar fate. He rolled across the restaurant into a table wreck where the saucepan dropped onto his head like a helmet. What transfixed Clark was an uncontrollable fury rolling off Bruce Wayne, the man who remained cold as ice when they fought Hades and level-headed when the world was crumbling beneath their feet. There was nothing calculating about Bruce smashing his fist into the last opponent's face and forcing the hoodlum to swallow a couple of teeth before the security appeared to interfere in the fight.

"All right, break it up, boys!"

A senior officer dropped his hand onto Bruce's shoulder like he intended to arrest him. The billionaire turned sharply to face him. 

"Mr Wayne!" the hand dropped away like it got scalded.

"My fiancée was assaulted by these three defects, officer," the billionaire's tone bore no contradictions. "I want them arrested immediately and added to the list of people banished from this mall for a lifetime. We will be pressing charges." 

The brunette rose on his elbow, spitting blood through a cracked lip. "No, we'll be pressing charges for an attack without the slightest provocation. You'll see my lawyers." 

"These three are the ones who harassed me," the waitress peeked around one of the officers cautiously. "This gentleman tried to interfere and they attacked him for it. I'm willing to testify in court." 

The brunette spat at her and the officer pulled a baton out, challenging him to do it again.

"You may press charges for harassment, Miss. Your administration must be contacted to press the damage charges to the café as well."

"Hey, he's the one who broke everything!" the bloke snarled, pointing at Bruce.

The officer had enough and smacked the caught hooligan on the back of the head with the baton.

"Our sincerest apologies for not arriving sooner, Mr Wayne." The officer gestured for his team to arrest the trio. "The security will operate better in the future."

A small crowd assembled. Luckily, rather than paying too much attention to the couple, they were amused by the security taking into custody the three wailing idiots. One of them slipped on the cake and crashed face first into a plate of éclairs. The other one kept unsuccessfully tugging at the saucepan firmly attached to his head and howling pitifully that he was afraid of the dark. The third threw a baleful glare at Clark as he was hauled to his feet and pushed past. 

The reporter scrambled onto his knees and searched for his glasses. He found them under the table with the frame bent and one of the lenses cracked. Bruce knelt beside him, wiping the worst of the sauce and salad off his face with a handkerchief. 

"Clark, my precious, are you ok? Did they hurt you? Do you want me to take you to the doctor?" 

It was just an act for the crowd, but it was so compelling to believe the tender concern swimming in his companion's eyes and how carefully he was helped to his feet. Bruce wrapped an arm around his shoulders and guided Clark to the bathroom to clean up. 

The bathroom was empty. The air conditioner hummed and the large mirrors reflected the polished perfection of Bruce Wayne and an absolute wreck the reporter was. Pulling out a complex key, Bruce locked the door.

Clark got a handful of liquid soap and began scrubbing the meal off his face, feeling like he was never going to get the grease out. The water hissed beside him. Frowning, Bruce was scrubbing his hands like he had touched something slimy. The cold fire in his eyes was gradually getting covered by a layer of ice. 

More or less satisfied that he didn't look like he had participated in a pie tossing contest, Clark wiped his face and looked at his companion's reflection. The vigilante's lips were moving, trying to form a question and debating how to present it. It came out curt. 

"Are you hurt?" 

"No."

Physically he wasn't, but Superman was occasionally surprised by the viciousness the average humans were capable of without even being the villains or criminals. Peaceful in nature, he wasn't always able to understand it. Those encounters often left him shaken. 

The disturbing evidence of that violence was present in a hand placed under a stream of water. Bruce tensed, debating whether to pull away, as Clark picked up his injured limb and blew on it lightly. His freezing breath enveloped the badly swollen knuckles in soothing cool. The dark knight's hand resting in his was so close to his lips. It was tempting to breach that short distance and press a get well kiss on it, but the tension made Superman think such gesture wouldn't be appreciated. Clark let go, fingertips lingering a fraction of a second.

"Can you wait for me? I will be back shortly," the vigilante's voice was subdued.

"There is a lot more sauce on me," Clark let him go. 

His bang was soaked in a squishy goo. The reporter tried to get the drying streaks out of his hair. With the second plate landing directly in place of the Superman's crest, his clothes were smudged. The stain soaked through the sweater and stuck to his skin. He looked terrible enough without the culinary embellishment and out of place in the glittering environment of the marble and mosaic walls. In the League, Batman was his team mate. Superman never considered how different their alternate identities social status was. Bruce must have worried about their child even more than he showed in order to consider a desperate plan of presenting him as a boyfriend. The four eyes from Cornville and a whimsical billionaire looked nothing like a couple at all. The bang plastered to his forehead and dripped pitifully. He had enough absurdity to nearly kiss Bruce's hand like the dark knight would have wanted that from a self-made scarecrow. Clark nearly jumped at the door opening, not expecting for his escort to return so quickly.

"Put these on," Bruce instructed, passing a few boxes to Clark. 

The journalist retreated to the change rooms, feeling more ridiculous since he hadn't thought of something as simple as using his bought clothes. 

While Clark was changing, Bruce turned the water switch to the maximum. It burned cold in contract with the heated skin. Eyes closed, he listened to the blood roar in his ears and counted the erratic pulse drumming beneath the skin. 

Those three imbeciles could have broken their legs had they managed to kick Superman with all the power their idiocy provided. Except, this consideration was nowhere in his mind when he saw the push. Clark's disguise was a little too convincing. That fall into the shards looked horribly painful to an observer. Before the fury arose, Bruce was struck by a sheer terror the likes of which he had never felt as acutely, because he thought that Clark might get hurt. Then he stopped caring that while a spoiled playboy could get into brawls, he wasn't suppose to fight like Batman. It was best to edit the mall video records of that fight. 

His bruised knuckles were blissfully numb. Once again, Superman worried about the insignificant scrapes of the others rather than about himself. The vigilante's mind was disarrayed, much like the water mist, when Clark brought his hand so close to his lips like he was going to kiss it. It had to be a figment of his imagination after that night. While Bruce regretted that he had been pulled away by duty without a conversation, it had to be for the best knowing Clark who was guided by an unfathomable code of honour. The sexual tension had been gradually building between them that needed an outlet, more so since the hormones during the pregnancy tended to wreck chaos with the emotions. Clark being Clark, was likely to believe he'd dishonour his partner if he didn't marry him after. Trying to forge a relationship out of a sense of obligation was the last thing the Kryptonian needed to worry about. 

Why couldn't Superman be interested? He had been inviting you out for coffee on more than one occasion. Because Clark was nice to everyone, Bruce scoffed at the questioning voice. This was no more than an altruistic Boy Scout attempt at bringing an isolate curmudgeon into the flock. The annoyance that Superman couldn't like him the way he was and needed to change his habits often caused Batman to tersely reject the invitations, even if he understood that Clark meant well. In any case, Bruce wasn't going to risk making the reporter uncomfortable with some ridiculous romantic overture, blown out of proportion just because they had sex once, when it was crucial or them to get along. Gradually forging a friendship the best they could had to suffice. 

The vigilante flickered the droplets off his eyelashes and composed himself into neutrality as the change room door opened reluctantly and Clark stepped out. 

"I think we got the size right," Clark pointed out, running his hands down the fabric anxiously to smooth the suit. 

The reporter's fashion criteria wasn't that high. Bruce supposed, when you were over six feet tall with the shoulders of the world's top wrestler, it had to be tricky to find anything that made you look suitably gaudy. A flawless figure was a challenge to ruin.

The newly presented look was certainly different. A light blue shirt and a conservative suit, hugging broad shoulders and crafted to conceal the growing middle, gave Clark the appearance of a mild mannered intellectual who maintained a polished Metropolis look, as it was too bright to speak Gotham. This style did not remind Bruce of Superman. The attention it drew wasn't the kind that inspired the bullies to trip up the four eyes passing them by. In fact, those whose tastes ran towards the sweet if bland guys would have found this fetching. 

Visibly nervous, Clark looked like he wanted to hear a second opinion. 

"At least you won't be called a bum anymore," Bruce surmised. 

The reporter flinched and reached for his glasses like he wanted to hide his face. He fumbled with the frame to bend it into a wearable shape. The glass was cracked as he put them back on somewhat askew, looking like he had a nasty encounter with the nearest pole. The unflattering shape starkly changed the facial structure, offering the bullies a target after all. Bruce was solely tempted to smooth that crooked bang concealing the high forehead away from his face.

"I can't see well like this. I should replace them as soon as possible," said the reporter, heading out into the mall.

"Stop!"

Clark complied, confused when Bruce stepped towards him. The dark knight paused an inch away and then knelt in front of him, one knee draped in a top brand suit touching the bathroom tiles.

"You're just looking for a convenient excuse to trip over something," Bruce accused, twisting a loose shoelace into a secure bow. With the playboy smile securely in place, he rose smoothly in front of his flustered companion like tying his shoelaces was the most natural thing in the world and then offered his elbow. "You better hold on to me, least you walk into something again." 

Heart in his throat, the reporter accepted. His hold was tight when they stepped out into the mall.


	31. Chapter 31

The closest optometrist was on a different floor that was quite a walk filled with the humming carols. The fountains downstairs bubbled, encased in bells and green garlands. Without the space parasites aiming to tear out hefty chunks of their flesh or the bandits from the thirtieth century bearing an arsenal of all incinerating weapons, the experience of walking with Bruce Wayne in peaceful surroundings was surreal like watching sunlight pour through the thickness of bottle green water. It seemed that Bruce had forgotten about their linked hands, but Clark was sensitive to the hold. He did not strive to walk all that fast, sorry once they've reached the clinic.

"Good afternoon. How may I help you today?" an optometrist's assistant beamed a friendly look over a semi-transparent rim of her specs.

"I had a minor accident with the front door. This damaged my glasses. I would like a replacement," Clark explained the issue, not that judging by his appearance presenting such information was necessary.

"Sir, you need to remove those! Wearing them can damage your sight more!" At the client's hesitation, the young woman ventured to snatch the glasses from Clark's nose, as it was for his own good, before diving into an office desk for the forms. "Oh my!" she exclaimed, having found the right documents and upon straightening caught a glimpse of the reporter's face. The woman stared at Clark open mouthed. 

Batman had a stricken thought that Superman was busted and mentally scrolled through his hidden arsenal for a suitable item to knock her out discretely and blame the faint on the excessive imagination later, when the woman's expression became ridiculously besotted.

"Do I still have spaghetti on my cheek?" Clark grabbed a handkerchief from his pocket and made a show of wiping his face clean.

"I like spaghetti!" A frilly wedding menu with the meatballs and sauce at the top of the page was physically projecting out of her mind. "May I have your mailing name and last address, please?"

"His name is Clark Kent. You may use the following address," Bruce put his business card in front of her. "Do you have any other questions?"

"Yes," the woman set her elbow on the table and leaned a flushed cheek against her palm, ignoring the card and the owner. "Tell me more."

"Should we not do some sort of umm... measurement test?" Clark squirmed under the hypnotising stare.

"Of course," the woman agreed, taking his hand and placing it on her breast.

"Oh, Miss? Miss? I don't think this is how the eyesight test is performed," Clark stammered as she tried to steal another look around the handkerchief. 

"Here, darling, I found a perfect set for you!" From a bottom shelf, Bruce grabbed a dusty pair of glasses that went out of fashion with the square wheels and jammed it onto Clark's nose. 

"Nooooo! You don't need glasses! I mean, we must perform an eyesight test before selecting the frames." 

"What an excellent idea!" Bruce took hold of a ninety year old optometrist who had huge owlish glasses set on his bony nose. Working nearby, up to this point the optometrist hadn't noticed any clients entering his clinic. "Why won't this fine gentleman perform the test while I help Miss with the paperwork." 

"Yes, of course," Clark bolted out of his seat to follow the optometrist who set him down before a prehistoric chart.

"Look at the top most row and tell me which letter you see, son," he instructed.

"Err.." The glasses distorted everything around him so much that Clark was unable to see the tip of his nose. 

"That would be an ar, not err and that's not even an R, that's a W!" 

"Actually, I think that's an S," Clark corrected, peeking over the glasses rim.

"Son, your vision is terrible!" 

The optometrist wrote some illegible scribbles on the form and instructed Clark to pass it back to his assistant. 

"About the frames," Clark prompted.

"Ah yes, these are fine frames you got there. Reminds me of the old pair of glasses I've lost."

"Oh, well, thank you so much."

The assistant waved bye dreamily, saying she knew Clark's address once he selected a temporary pair until the prescription came, and prompted by Batman's incinerating scowl hurried to take his leave. 

"I believe the optometrist may need new glasses," said Clark once they got away far enough. "Walking around with a pair that doesn't fit can be daaaaangerous!"

Sparing an indignant thought why everything fell underfoot recently and wondering whether something in his surroundings was very distracting, Clark toppled, before encountering a firm body that stopped the fall. The reporter sprawled inelegantly in his escort's arms. 

"I see your valuable point," Bruce grinned, returning his companion into a vertical position. A strand of hair brushed his face as Clark straightened and Bruce found his date close, so close he could see the tiny arrows in the bright irises. Bruce wasn't aware of his arm laying on the small of his companion's back until Clark stepped away and dismally searched his bag for a brown envelope that he offered to Bruce.

"I don't think I'll ever find a perfect moment. I really wanted you to have this."

Under a bashful gaze, the billionaire extracted a print from the envelope. "This is..." Bruce swallowed, looking at the black and white image of a tiny being that was his and Clark's. 

"J'onn took it during the last ultrasound."

It was impossible to tell from the tiny, bundled shape whether it was a girl or a boy, but Bruce thought the little being was wondrous. This gift was worth a world. 

"Thank you." 

Bruce hid the image in his inner pocket. Without thinking, he gathered Clark's hand once more to resume their walk. 

That touch, a strong hand linked with his like it wanted to ward him from any fall, lingered on the reporter's mind a few days later when Clark sat behind his desk at work, mindlessly tapping a pencil against his lips. In their interaction, a mark had been left by one spoken word. It must have formed for intimidation to highlight the gravity of the offence when Bruce called him fiancée rather than boyfriend. The vigilante must have completely forgotten doing so, however, during that day Clark had seen a few glimpses of them growing closer. The word served as a tiny spark of confirmation. 

“What do you think about this stuff?” the reporter was mercilessly pulled out of his hopeful daydreams by a sharp remark.

Clark sniffed a jar of hand cream thrust under his nose by an overly zealous colleague. It emanated a mild citrus scent. 

“This gunk costs a hundred bucks,” Lois informed him with a vicious gleefulness like she found another scumbag to expose. “Another line of brainwashing, a de-aging cream. This one widely successful. No matter how often you beat the dead horse, people always believe this time it’s going to be different.”

“What did Jasmine say about the kitten?” Clark took an opportunity to ask since another one wasn’t going to be presented soon with Lois moving on so fast. The question what to do with the kitten still troubled him three weeks later and the date with the dumpster was threatening to become unavoidable.

“Darn it, I’m sorry I forgot to ask,” Lois’ attention was already on the other side of the room where she had a bone to pick with the chief. 

Perry White was going to have a different bone to pick with him too if Clark didn’t organise a messy pile of notes into a coherent article by the end of the day. A few minutes later the reporter was fully absorbed in work, supporting the intellectual effort with a nice snack of baby carrots. A pleasant scent tickled his senses. Unwittingly, Clark dunked the treat into an open jar Lois had abandoned on his table and popped a carrot into his mouth. 

When the downtown traffic began to buzz and the city employees headed home many hours later, Clark was alerted by a burning sensation in the pit of his stomach. The nauseating pain was rapidly intensifying. Snapping out of his thoughts, Clark noticed an empty container. Suppressing panic, the reporter sniffed his fingers, discovering the citrus scent on them. 

Oh, he felt so bad! The intuition was screaming to get medical help urgently. Clutching the hapless jar, the reporter rushed outside the Daily Planet building.

The tunnel between the Metropolis and Gotham had never been this long. Several times darkness closed in around him. Clark staggered out of the garden shed plagued by a dizzying pain. Soft feet patted towards him and a small form issued a distressed mewl. 

"I feel terrible, Bat," he gasped.

The next step was akin to falling into a spiralling abyss. His entire body contorted in agony. The frozen earth crust scraped against his cheek. Clark tried to rise on an elbow and dropped back into muck, retching. His stomach emptied vengefully. The ringing in his temples was tearing his brain to pieces. He was a shivering mess, frightened of his body betraying him so. What was going to happen to his child? He harmed his baby! Amongst the unceasing vomiting and bitter cold the thought was horrifying. 

"Clark! Clark! Can you hear me?" 

Someone gathered him into their arms, waiting out the worst of it. His head rolled limply against a strong shoulder as he was picked up and swiftly carried towards the house. Bruce. 

"I've ingested this with the carrots," Clark whimpered, offering the jar. How could he have been so awfully careless? In a daze he caught a glimpse of his rescuer's face. There were traces of fear in it. What could Batman be afraid of? 

"It's ok! It is well. You did well by bringing what poisoned you," he was assured instead of rebuked for the horrendous stupidity. "I can analyse this for an antidote."

"B..." the befuddled warning never made it past the first syllable and the pungent vomit soaked the vigilante's sweater. 

"Just get it out of your system," Bruce hissed at an attempted apology. 

Clark hardly recognised his room in the blurry surroundings. He was too sick to spare embarrassment for the soiled clothes being pulled off and getting ushered into the shower where he dropped onto his knees to resume the pastime that was becoming a second nature. An agonizing contraction like the child wanted to leave him for hurting them had him cry out in fear. He poisoned his child! Breathe. Breathe. Breathe. 

"Clark!" the voice reaching out to him had an adamant quality. "The stress will make it worse. Calm down. Please. We're going to make it better."

Bruce was kneeling beside him, stripped as well. Clark vaguely recalled puking all over his host too. The vigilante was steadying him. One arm wrapped around his middle and another rubbed the base of his neck. Reassuring words were whispered into his ear, willing the panic to subside. 

The dread washed away gradually with the warm droplets beating against his back. When the violent contortions lessened and the vomiting ceased, Bruce turned off the water. Refusing to let go of his charge even for a second, he wrapped Clark in a towel and rubbed the moisture off his skin and hair. With the urge to puke resurfacing, Clark was bundled into a warm robe and carried to bed. 

The room was drifting. Strange how two minutes ago he was shivering from cold and now he was so hot. Clark greedily drank the water when a glass was pressed against his lips and Bruce cradled the back of his head prompting him up. When a hand settled on his burning forehead, he leaned into a blissfully cool touch. 

"I can't handle this alone. I'm taking you to J'onn." 

As much as he wanted to agree, the words weren't coming, lost in a stinging delirium. 

"Clark! Stay with me... stay..." a frantic voice kept repeating over and over. It was fading... fading... fading.


	32. Chapter 32

"Truth be told, I wasn't sure which one of them was dying when they showed up at the medical bay. The look on his face scared me more than the mask ever had."

"I would have freaked out a lot more. Had that been my child and lover semi-delirious, I'd smashing the place raving mad."

Two muffled voices penetrated the floating consciousness where he must have hidden from pain to cope. Gradually, they assembled the subtler sounds, shaping the reality and stirring his memory composed of the acrid fragments where he was filled with dread and agony because he had endangered... 

Clark shot up in bed with a gasp, dropping his hand onto the notable bump. His heart hammered in his ears from the initial fright that his child might not have been there any longer, making it difficult to concentrate on another beat pulsing inside him. 

"Take it easy. Your baby is safe," a voice that held a note of authority assured him. "J'onn claims you received aid quickly. There won't be complications. He also assigned you bed rest."

The speaker gathered his shoulders and motioned him to lie back down, which was for the best because the room was swimming and there were hardly any lucid thoughts. Trying to focus to carry out a conversation, Clark looked up a heavily bandaged arm that helped him down to a green and black uniform, and then into a face set with worry. He must have done a very poor job of hiding his unease because John immediately picked up on his disquiet.

"Sorry we found out and in such a way too. I was getting my arm fixed when Batman brought you in," seeing a silent question at 'we' GL moved aside, revealing Hawkgirl. She stayed back, not entirely comfortable in situations when one needed to express sentiments for the ailing colleagues. Her hands were twitching in agitation to grab her power mace on instinct, while it was useless since illness couldn't have been smashed to bits. Neither seemed too surprised by his pregnancy. The Lantern had lived too long in the galaxy and met plenty of species where males could carry children, so had Hawkgirl.

"I apologize for keeping this a secret," Clark didn't like how rough his voice was. Remaining flat on his back made him too vulnerable. In spite of the lethargic feeling plaguing him, the hero attempted to sit up if only to be in a better position to face his problems. GL wrapped an arm around his shoulders and adjusted the pillow to help him recline against it. He wasn't out of the woods with the poisoning because the motion stirred a churching sensation in his stomach and his throat clenched with bile. "This doesn't mean I don't trust you," Clark managed.

"We get it," it was Hawkgirl who spoke up. "Even though we wouldn't tell anyone, we deal with plenty of mind reading or controlling psychos who can pry it out by accident. The fewer people know, the less dangerous it is." 

"Thank you for understanding," the words were scratching the back of his throat and he cleared it.

"J'onn said you should drink lots of liquids to avoid dehydration. Would you like some tea?" At his nod, Hawkgirl glided to a pot left by the doctor and poured the steaming liquid into a mug. "Normally, I don't do the cozy bring the milk and cookies routine, but I'll manage an exception in honour of meeting your kiddo." 

Clark thanked her sincerely, accepting the cup. He was glad it wasn't full because his grip wasn't too steady as he lifted it to take a careful sip. It was hot, but not scalding and the jasmine blend was very soothing. GL poured another cup for him and set it by the bedside within easy reach.

"That must have been an accident prone day," Clark motioned at the bandaged arm. Batman hardly ever shared the news from the tower and Superman was curious about the world turning events the heroes had dealt with in his absence. 

"Tell me about it," GL ground out. "Some crazy coot of a wanna be scientific genius figured it would win him a noble prize if he used an enhanced giganticus potion on a large batch of the carnivorous plants. One of those poison-fanged shits nearly chewed my ring arm off." 

"That will teach you not to stick your arms into poisonous flora mouths to acquire fang samples," Hawkgirl snorted with little sympathy. By the looks of it, she had accompanied Lantern to the medical bay to chew him out after the battle. 

"How was I suppose to know it could bite through a power shield?" 

Superman hid a smile behind a mug at their banter. It brought him a sense of stability like at the end of a regular day when they'd chatter post dealing with a cataclysmic event, even if it was laced with regret that he no longer helped in dangerous confrontations. He was still learning to accept that he couldn't always be with the team.

The quips ceased with an appearance of another person in the room. The pair made a quick excuse to leave with a promise to visit Superman later.

Bruce regarded the patient from the doorway like an unsure visitor. His hair lay a mess and a collar of his shirt that didn't match his pants was turned inward. Clark's heart twisted, guilty of brining disarray to a normally meticulous appearance. Most vividly, the metahuman recalled a look of fear etched onto a pale face, able to make the connection why when previously he had been too muddled. This was his fault. 

Speechless to form how sorry he was, Clark reached out mutely. Bruce crossed the room to his side in a flash, thinking he wanted help. He was surprised when the Kryptonian pulled him into a hug, offering comfort instead. Even if he had the ever present impulse to extract himself carefully from the hold, Bruce ignored it, unwilling to hurt his companion in any way. The fingers combing through his hair were easing the dread that clawed at him ever since the bracelet that monitored Clark's life signs sent an alarming vibration along his wrist. 

"I'm sorry," the voice was shaky when Clark managed to speak up at last. "I have no excuse."

"No," Bruce shifted as to cause no discomfort so he could face the metahuman. "You shouldn't stress yourself by taking the blame where none exists. You have the instinctive need to feed the baby. Sometimes you pick up food from the table without noticing and eat it. I've already asked Alfred to remove anything harmful that has a scent or resembles food from the table-like surfaces around the house, but you need to control the environment outside the mansion. You should have been made aware of that habit. That hand cream smelled like one of your cravings." 

"That...wasn't your fault either," Clark said through a lump in his throat. The nausea was right there, stirring below the surface. He picked up an untouched cup of tea poured for him by John and offered it to Bruce. "Here. You look like you had no rest for as long as I've been out," Clark offered mildly like he was proposing a deal. He wouldn't blame himself if Bruce did the same.

The vigilante accepted the cup and took a sip of a soothing blend. He would have equally accepted a pack of nails to chew on had Clark given it to him. Panic wasn't something he often succumbed to. It left him empty and raw in its wake.

"It's a good thing your beloved dark knight is furry armour came to save you in the hour of danger," Bruce exhaled the tension, unwilling to have Clark worry about him too in addition to his sickness. Alerted by the bracelet, Batman was on the way to the garden, unsure about the exact spot, when he was nearly bowled over by a black jet of fur that attached its claws to his shin with a desperate meowing long enough to grab his attention and then began running back and forth between Bruce and a spot along the path leading to the mansion. "You should have seen Bat. Fur stuck up, tail like a chimney brush and yowling like a fire alarm. He bit my ankle to make me follow him to you." 

As intended, the mention of his darling pet brought an inking of a smile. "Where's Bat?" Clark asked not without worry, remembering his threat to dispose of the flea collecting furball. 

"Probably lounging inside my unfinished dinner plate and stuffing his face with baked salmon," Bruce drawled out. "When are you going to teach that cat better manners?"

"Maybe he knows that this is the Bat's plate?" Clark tried to defend his cat.

"He also knows that my car is called Batmobile, but that's not an invitation to pee on its wheel."

Clark chuckled and next instant his body contorted in pain. "Nauseous..." he whispered.

Bruce shot up to a basin and set it in front of the patient just as Clark heaved. The vigilante supported part of his weight and stroked his back through the spasms. When the retching stopped, he helped Clark rinse his mouth and recline in bed. The metahuman was shaking. When Bruce lifted a glass of fresh water to his lips, he obediently drank the refreshing liquid.

J'onn silently drifted into the room, patiently waiting on the other side of the lab. He needed to conduct another examination. Out of his depth, Bruce was glad for his presence. When they were analysing the hand cream, instead of helping he was doing a lot of pointless things and hindering the Martian. 

"It would be nice to brush my teeth," Clark muttered as the dark knight dabbed a few beads of sweat from his forehead with a handkerchief. 

"I can get a toothbrush from your quarters," Bruce offered. "Would you like me to get anything else? Maybe a book?"

"I can't read right now, thank you." His head was hurting and it was too hard to concentrate on any task even speaking. Clark hated to admit how badly he felt. He wanted to sleep for hours. "Actually," he shifted, not entirely at ease to admit discomfort and Bruce touched his hand carefully, showing that he was listening. "There is a small rectangular pillow on my bed at the mansion. I place it under the small of my back." 

"I'll pick it up," Bruce promised. "Would you like to change these pillows or have more of them?" 

"I'm all right for now, thank you." 

Clark's hold lingered a moment longer than necessary as Bruce rose to make space for the doctor. Marvelling at his hesitation to leave, he walked to the transport site deep in thought. There was a sensation of emptiness swallowing him as the watchtower walls melted and the Batcave materialised where Alfred was keeping vigil. 

"He's no longer in immediate danger," Bruce shared as the butler looked over him critically.

"I've ironed your shirts," Alfred informed him, eliciting a wry stare from the vigilante.

"I take it, I look like the wreck I feel."

No wander Clark offered him a hug. Bruce relented. Changing wasn't going to take long and it was going to prevent everyone from asking him whether he planned on living in the next five minutes. 

"I should have contacted you earlier," he told Alfred as the means of apology. "It was... hectic."

Alfred accepted another understatement from the younger man and tactfully disappeared as Bruce entered his room. After a quick shower, drying his hair with a towel as he stepped back into his bedroom, Bruce found a neat stack on clothes folded on his bed and a steaming lunch. The vigilante placed the tray on his lap and took a seat in an armchair, piercing a steamed piece of broccoli with a fork and setting it in his mouth to chew thoughtfully, mostly for the sake of peace. He had given Alfred enough headache to worry him more with Master Bruce refusing to eat again. 

The coffee wasn't doing much to invigorate him. After consuming so much of it, Batman must have grown immune to the drink's side-effects. Bruce didn't notice how he drifted off. He woke up two hours later covered with a blanket. The tray was smartly removed from the room. Cursing himself for giving into weakness, he dressed quickly and headed for the guest room to pick up the things the metahuman requested. J'onn must have finished examination by now. Bruce didn't like the idea of Clark being left alone. What if he got nauseous again or became thirsty. 

Bat was in the room when Bruce came in. With his ears lowered in depression the kitten was carefully sniffing the fading scent on his master's pillows. His pink nose poked into them and small paws treaded the fabric like he was looking for something. Burning an intruder with a burst of green lightening from his eyes, Bat arched his back and swapped claws at a pillow snatcher who tried to burglarise his master's bed as Bruce reached for one. 

Not in the mood to negotiate, the dark knight grabbed both the pillow and the kitten, tucking them under his arm as he moved to the bathroom to get the toothbrush. "Come with me, you fluffy pillow comforter," he growled when the kitten attempted to sink pointy teeth into the underside of his arm. 

When he returned to the watchtower with a squirming bundle, the examination was complete. J'onn was studying medical data next to the sleeping patient. The Martian exchanged a concerned glance with him, giving up his watch to Bruce.

The dark knight was reluctant to move the patient for the concern of waking him and placed the pillow next to Clark rather than under his back with a ruffled ball of fur atop of it. The kitten shook himself and treaded towards his favourite person with a non too loud purr. The feline wiggled underneath Clark's hand that rested atop of the sheets.

Making sure none heard him, Bruce leaned closely to the resting pair to whisper a sneaky sentiment into the feline's ear.

"You're a good cat."


	33. Chapter 33

Moving along the watchtower corridors, preferably without being seen as he didn't want to discuss it, Bruce considered how they couldn't have kept the pregnancy secret from the rest of the League without a sound explanation why the medical bay was off limits. Since almost everyone was informed, Flash and Diana soon came with their congratulations, in spite of Batman's reservations about the red speedster's ability to keep his mouth under lock. He had to admit no less that Flash was the most supportive in a ridiculous kind of way, making faces at the unborn child and adopting their nickname as the 'little guy.' This made the 'big guy' smile, which Batman supposed was worth tolerating. The mug Bruce carried was spreading warmth into his hands, a good kind of warmth that indicated healing. Admittedly, battling the poisoning was taking longer than one hoped for, considering Superman's recovery powers. 

When he came in, Clark wasn't sleeping. The metahuman was trying to find a comfortable position that would ease the tension in his lower back without much luck. Ignoring the shuffling, Bat was curled atop of his stomach like a protective sentinel. The kitten slid an eye open to assess an incoming threat and then tucked his muzzle in between the fluffy paws. 

"I take it, that's my lunch that smells so good," Clark perked up. 

"Glad you approve. Its chicken broth," Bruce announced as he crossed the room to adjust the pillows and help the patient sit up before passing a filled mug to him. "J'onn claims your stomach will be able to handle solid food soon."

Watchful for any signs that the meal was still too much, the dark knight settled next to the metahuman as Clark took careful sips of the offered broth. Much to their relief, the nausea had finally abated. The doctor was concerned that the corrected over the past month problem with being underweight was going suffer a setback after throwing up everything for the past few days.

Bat's nose twitched in keen interest as to what his master was eating. He uncurled and treaded up Clark's chest to butt his head against an arm holding the mug.

"You'll be interested in something more solid," Clark informed the little demander and scratched Bat behind his ear. The hero lowered the mug to allow the kitten to sniff the broth. 

Bruce observed how with a kind amusement Clark was handling the kitten that was poking around like a little kid. Trepidation that soon there truly would be a curious child doing the same, squeezed his chest. They had to be more careful and avoid any other accidents. Having the League share the secret was in part relieving because in an emergency they now could have been called on to help without extra explanations. The crowd visiting the medical bay daily was uplifting Superman's mood who was beginning to feel caged even though he was still unwell. 

"You should buy a collar for your adopted hero," Bruce advised once the mug was empty. "For now, it might be better to place the Wayne Manor address on the locket since you live there."

"It won't disturb you to have him?" hope shined when Clark looked up at him tentatively. 

"The kitten is helping you managed stress," Bruce shrugged indifferently like it was no more than common sense. "It wouldn't be prudent to remove the things from your surroundings that comfort you." 

Bruce was enveloped in a flying hug before he finished speaking. This was a fifth hug Clark sprung up on him, not that anyone was counting. Clark hugged others too. Showering everyone with affection was apparently a pregnant Kryptonian thing. 

Squished in between them Bat scrambled away, with a disgruntled mewl landing on the floor. He didn't abandon the post and hopped back onto the bed from the other side, shooting Bruce a suspicious stare least the vigilante planned on occupying that space again. 

"Give me a favour, try to avoid dragging a giraffe over to my home," Bruce requested only half joking. With Clark owning a unique animal zoo from outer space, all the bets were off. "The foyer isn't big enough to accommodate it." 

"I prefer a hippopotamus." 

"Bat will be jealous."

"I wonder how something so small can take up so much of your time," Clark chuckled. 

"Wait until you have kids."

What prompted him to use a plural? The mood changed slightly and Clark let go of him, embarrassed by acting on an impulse again. 

"You brought a bag with you today," the metahuman questioned. 

"I've been looking at some child development books. They claim the baby can hear the parents' voices at this point," Bruce placed a bag onto the bed. It was filled with a fairy tales collection. Since Clark wasn't up for any strenuous activities, spending quiet quality time with the child seemed wise. "I thought it might be beneficial if I were to read these out loud." The metahuman wasn't feeling well enough to concentrate on the reading, but he could listen along with their baby.

"That's a wonderful idea! I like it very much!" Clark looked like he wanted to hug him again, but restrained himself. With a great interest, he picked up the books filled with colourful images to study them.

"Would you mind if I joined you?" 

Receiving an affirmative, Bruce climbed onto bed beside his partner, displacing Bat again. He was wearing comfortable clothes without any buckles, so they wouldn't cause discomfort to Clark who would end up curled against him no matter how much Bruce tried to maintain that propriety distance. The dark knight reclined, stretching almost flat on his back, allowing Clark to snuggle against him and pillow his head on his chest. 

Resting in bed together was becoming a habit. Bruce got another hug a couple of days ago when he told Clark that he was taking the time off from business to keep him company until he got through the worst of the illness, once the vigilante learned from J'onn that physical contact was very important and served to speed up the recovery. Alfred was to inform him about the emergencies only. Luckily, they hadn't been disturbed. 

While he still went out at night as Batman, the situation resembled a vacation Bruce hadn't in years. He got plenty of rest by spending daytime with Clark. In secret, he found it therapeutic cradling his pregnant partner close. There was a sweet scent clinging to Clark's skin that emerged in the course of the pregnancy, which urged Bruce to keep close to his partner and ensure nothing disturbed him. Bruce caught himself twice unwittingly placing kisses on the metahuman's temple and cheek when Clark was asleep against him. 

Once the patient settled contently, Bruce began to read. He imitated a professional fairy tale narrator, allowing his voice to fall soft like a blanket of snow over the earth. It was a new experience speaking to their unborn child. He found a grateful listener in Clark who was smiling or frowning depending on the events whenever his intonation changed to mimic the various characters. In one particularly sad part of the story Clark giggled. 

"I didn't know that having a princess locked up in a tower by a vengeful dragon was such a funny affair," Bruce quirked an eyebrow at him as Clark covered his mouth with his hand and another giggle came out. It was fun, like the playful rays of sunlight bouncing against a window glass in the summer.

"I have butterflies in my stomach," Clark confessed over the snickers. "They're extremely ticklish. I think it's the baby moving."

"May I?" Bruce requested, intrigued.

Clark pushed the blanket aside, allowing him to place a hand on the curvy tummy. "Right there," he whispered. 

They waited with Bruce's hand resting atop of the spot where Clark sensed the fluttering. To feel the connection better, Bruce wished he could touch the warm skin underneath instead of the standard medical robe fabric the patient was draped in. Judging by a mesmerising smile the connection to their baby was special. There was a stab of disappointment at being unable to find that link. 

"It must be too early for me to feel the movement," regretfully, Bruce confessed. 

Clark tried to change his position to sit up straighter and winced in pain. His eyes squeezed shut as he took a steadying breath and swallowed. Instinctively, Bruce wrapped an arm around him.

"Are you nauseous? Thirsty? Do you want another pillow?" 

In response to him turning into a worrying mother, Clark kissed his cheek and immediately blushed. For the lack of place to hide his face, Clark buried it against his partner's chest. "I'm sorry," his voice came muffled by Bruce's shirt. "It's just very sweet of you to worry. Thank you."

Bruce didn't answer for the fear his voice would betray him. He was glad that Clark wasn't looking up. Otherwise, he would have noticed a telltale blush. How did a little peck on the cheek fluster him so? 

"I hope J'onn discharges me from the medical bay soon. My back is going to turn wooden from the lack of movement."

While the doctor had a valuable point about staying put because even a short trip to the bathroom exhausted most of his energy, Superman wasn't used to a prolonged lack of activity. Clark hoped at the Wayne Manor he wouldn't be caught immediately and ushered back to bed as soon as he tried to get up with Bruce being there, hence better than anyone else Batman appreciated the desire to escape from the medical imprisonment. 

"I know you've refused the professional help, but you cannot keep sucking up the pain. It's getting worse," Bruce spoke up. "I picked up some masseuse skills while traveling in Taiwan. I can try to alleviate the discomfort." A small movement in his arms told him that Clark wasn't opposed to the idea, but a lot of his help offers were received hesitantly like the metahuman was fearful of being a burden. 

Careful not to change their position abruptly, Bruce disentangled from the hold and moved across the room to pick up more pillows, intending to create a concave nest that would tuck around the baby bump securely. Floating above the bed wasn't going to work as it lacked the proper support because the weight would have pulled the abdomen down and put extra pressure on the ligaments. After a brief hesitation, Clark began helping him organise the bed for the massage. The vigilante took a bit longer than necessary to ensure the patient would be as secure as possible.

"Would you mind?" 

Clark wasn't looking at him directly when he asked, clearly uncomfortable undressing in front of someone else. As the vigilante turned away, Clark removed the robe and carefully lay down on his side, covering himself as much as possible. This bashfulness was contradictory to the memories Bruce was trying to bury when the metahuman lay in his arms completely naked and how sensitive Clark was to his touches when they made love. 

Once he was allowed to look, Bruce picked up scented oil and rubbed his hands together to bring warmth to the palms before touching the flushed skin. It was fiendishly difficult to think about this purely as a medical procedure when the metahuman was so handsome. Inwardly Bruce pinched himself. He was suppose to be making sure his child was born healthy. This meant ensuring his partner suffered no pain, rather than recalling all too vividly their night together. Giving into the hormonal demands once didn't mean there was going to be more after that night.

"Oh..." Clark breathed out like he was drained of a great amount of tension as Bruce ran his hands down the well toned back, searching for the spots where the muscles were strained the most. The pleasure turned into a slight wince once Bruce identified where to start and his fingers sunk into loosening the strained muscles in the lower back.

"Tell me if it hurts at any point," noting the discomfort, Bruce treaded lighter. He worked diligently on lessening the tension. 

"I doubt hitting me with a shovel would hurt," Clark’s voice was muffled. 

"There shouldn't even be a doubt when we're talking about you.” 

Gradually, the granite like cluster of muscles unclenched under the stubborn ministrations. Clark shuddered when the self-assumed masseuse ran his hands up and down his spine. The pressure points were giving into the kneading. He was unable to hide a small sigh of pleasure at the rigidity loosening its hold on his body. 

Did that night linger on his mind at all? Bruce couldn’t see Clark’s face buried in the crook of the arm. The vigilante touched the base of his neck gently where the tousled dark hair was curled, acting on a feeling that coiled in his chest and demanded the touches to become more than clinical. 

“I feel much better,” Clark told him, shifting to look over his shoulder at Bruce who ran his hands over his back one more time to remove the last of the pain. 

“Stay please?” the metahuman requested as Bruce reorganised the bed and removed the extra pillows. He wanted to get better and looked forward to being released from the hospital, but that meant soon he’d return to his room and Bruce to his responsibilities. He was going to cherish the little time the dark knight was willing to bestow on him. The bed shifted as Bruce joined him wordlessly and his arms wrapped around Clark to secure him. 

“Thank you for being…” Clark wanted to say ‘here,’ but the last word drifted off, leaving them with ‘thank you for being.’ 

He was going to miss their closeness.


	34. Chapter 34

If he didn't know any better, the Gotham vigilante would have thought he was getting domesticated after spending four days in a row having dinner at home with Clark Kent for company.

Once J'onn declared the patient free to return home, the billionaire likewise went back to overseeing the smooth running of the Wayne Enterprises. The reporter also intended to return to work soon and Bruce wanted him to rest as much as possible before diving back into the intense life of papers and investigations. 

Several times, the dark knight bit back from expressing his reservations about returning to that death trap of a job with Lois Lane for a partner. The criminals shot at you for sticking your nose into their affairs and the influential businessmen, Lex Luthor not the last of them, covertly hired assassins to plant bombs in the cars of the overly curious prospectors. Not to mention, the reckless colleagues who left poisonous consumables on your desk. Still. It wasn't his place to tell the metahuman what was dangerous. One of the most powerful beings on the planet knew what to do and was more than qualified to protect their child. In spite of this lasting philosophy that it was none of his business, Bruce didn't want the reporter going back to the Daily Planet. 

The vigilante settled for a grudging acceptance that he'd be able to check on Clark in the evenings. With the renewed responsibilities, this was the only time when their schedules intersected. Predictably, Alfred expressed delight at having Master Bruce spend the evenings in the company much superior to the office dust. The accused responded that his perfectly polished office had not a speck of which. Breathing in the same slandered dust for dinner didn't compete with the butler's cooking either. 

These meals tended to invoke a malleable mood when the pair retired to the living room after dinner for some quiet activities such as reading. Clark was resting on a couch with a blanket wrapped around his waist. He had a pull towards surrounding himself with the soft objects one could build safe nests out of. 

The metahuman was also wearing his favourite sweater purchased during their shopping trip. Bruce knew the reporter formed an attachment to the item when Clark paused to touch the delicate yet warm fabric, lingering to study it, while he had remained mostly bewildered by the other extensive selection. After their shopping trip, the reporter probably didn't know the entire content of his closet. 

The garment suited Clark perfectly. The white cashmere was like the first snow, fluffy and cropped with a family feeling of Christmas. There was a gentle aura of an expecting parent surrounding the reporter when he sat like that lost in thought. This pulled the vigilante closer in spite of his reservations. He wanted to guard that tranquility. Rather than assuming a seat in the master of the house armchair, Bruce sat down on the carpet and leaned against the couch. Since Clark didn't question this strange choice, the dark knight gradually submerged in work, pouring over the old newspaper extracts. It was an echo of a long buried serial killer, a present day imitator. The solution was nearby, like a ghost laughing at you from the depths of a haunted mansion. Bruce tensed, unable to quite grasp an elusive strand. 

A gentle hand descended onto his head. The dark knight stilled, controlling his breathing as the reporter stroked his hair. Unwilling to spook him, Bruce glanced at their reflection in a silver platter. 

Unaware of the caress, Clark was immersed in the world he was cast into by the book. Reacting to Batman's thoughts turning to the dark alleys, the metahuman reached out. It was impossible to think of anything else but those delicate fingers combing through his hair. Bruce didn't want it to stop. This touch spellbound the dark knight to a single spot where an impulse to lean away, flee while he had the strength, lingered distant like a dying candle. 

***********************************************************************************************************************************************

In his mind, Clark promised to clean up a few melted footprints and his shoes abandoned by the front door as soon as he could get up, except he lacked the necessary energy to roll off the bed. The snow he trekked through to get home, turned the Wayne garden into a glittering wonderland. Conscience prompted that Alfred already had enough work keeping everything orderly. As much as Clark wanted to move, his body demanded at least fifteen minutes of recuperation after a merciless day of skidding the rooftops in search of the incriminating material with Lois Lane. His ankles had taken offence at scaling the endless flights of stairs where it was next to impossible to cheat and float up with the feisty young woman next to him when little escaped her notice. 

The reporter hadn't expected that returning to work would be physically difficult. His boss was presented with a perfectly forged medical note. It outlined the health issues that often caused a rapid weight gain as well. This didn't save the reporter from Perry White throwing him back into the thick of things. However, the emerging suggestions to visit a local gym by the well meaning colleagues have ceased because everything that was suppose to remain confidential, spread a lot faster than whatever was advertised freely. The mild mannered journalist tended to receive all sorts of advice he did not want, offered out of the good intentions. 

The maddening race aside, it was invigorating to come back and work towards helping people if only through human ways. The day breezed by in flurry of snowflakes descending from the low skies. 

What troubled Clark more than the protesting ankles, were his clothes acting as an irritant and he had to endure the ache during an entire workday. Coming home from the Daily Planet, the reporter with a sigh of relief removed his shirt and examined his chest in the mirror. It developed a swelling and the nipples became very tender, turning larger and darker. His body was changing to be able to feed the baby. According to the Fortress database, his breasts weren't going to become as large as female's, but they were going to develop as they filled with milk. 

The skin stretched tight and it was itching, while the slightest brush of any material against the nipples was akin to a sandpaper scraping sensitive flesh. Having learned about this possibility in advance, Clark developed a cream to help the skin gain more elasticity that lessened the pain. It was kept in the medical lab at the Batcave. It was a chore to get up and head down to the cave, but he had to lessen the symptoms. 

The baby shifted in response to a disturbance as Clark sat up. Those little flutters were gradually developing into more defined movements. There was still enough space in his tummy for the baby to move. Even though the reporter moved slowly, getting up made him a little dizzy and he paused to recover the bearings before moving to the closet in search of a roomy t-shirt. Putting on a formal attire again was too uncomfortable.

Getting past the old clock entrance, Clark had to stop at the bottom of the stairs, light-headed. One of the pale blue lights was flickering on and the computer keys were tapped by someone working at the monitors. Whoever it was, they got alerted by Superman's entrance because the power went out, submerging the cave in darkness. This person was adept at navigating in the blind. The stealthy footsteps headed directly for Clark. They bared similarity to Batman's movement, but belonged to a person of a smaller stature.

"Who are you?" Clark asked as he heard that person draw within the arm's reach.

In response, a heavy object smashed into the back of his head. Superman grabbed someone's arm, forcing the attacker into dropping the weapon who hadn't expected such a fast move. The hero's grip gradually tightened to match the resistance without breaking the arm. Judging by the force, this person had no enhanced powers. The hero underestimated the adversary because a foot hooked underneath his knee and the person threw his entire weight against him, forcing them down the last two steps. Superman didn't release the offender. His flight slowed the fall an inch from the floor. As the assailant tried his best to wrench out of his grasp, the lights came back on bright. Clark didn't get to see the attacker. The treacherous dizziness descended once more, covering the world in darkness.

"Of all the ill thought out things you could have done..." a levelled voice with an undercurrent of anger pierced his consciousness and Clark grew aware of at least three people in the room, one more checking his pulse while the other two argued. 

"I thought our home was crawling with super villains! We had spent a week chasing a lead that someone had learned your secret identity. They could have broken into the Batcave. As far as I knew, they could have gotten to you and were inflicting torture!"

Intrigued by who was on the other end of Batman's chastising, Clark opened his eyes and sat up, putting an end to the argument. 

"Hello, you must be Dick," he greeted a guilty looking teenager, after taking in the three people surrounding him. When they had met in Metropolis, Clark hadn't used his vision to check who hid under the mask, but it was unlikely that anyone other than Batman's adopted son knew about the cave.

"I'm...uh... sorry about hitting you with the crowbar," the teen gestured to a heavily bent piece of metal that lay like an accusing evidence next to the couch. "I didn't hurt the baby, did I?" 

"Don't worry, the baby is all right," Clark assured. Feeling sorry of the damaged item, he picked up the crowbar up and straightened it. "Luckily, you smacked me over the head. I don't believe that's what caused me to black out. You didn't hurt either of us."

Bruce snorted at the relativity of that statement and what metahuman considered lucky.

"If I may ask, Master Clark, when was the last time you've eaten?" It was Alfred who voiced the concern as he was the one who checked the reporter's pulse and thought it was too rapid. 

"I... oh! Since the last time you've fed me in the morning?" It was Clark's turn to look sheepish. Now that it was mentioned, he was starving. "I'm sorry. I've gotten carried away investigating with Lois." He shouldn't have forgotten, as much as he was excited about returning to the Daily Planet. The lack of nourishment certainly explained his dizziness. 

"Then, I would recommend adjourning to the dining room where the meal is waiting." 

Living with the certain vigilantes made their poor habits rub off on you, the butler's countenance said. Bruce's grip was hard when he held Clark's elbow to help him up. Once they moved to the dining room, Dick took a seat beside his father across Superman, looking anywhere but at the hero. Since the teen mentioned his child without questions, Clark assumed he missed the tacky conversation where Bruce explained the situation to his son. While Dick was still mulling over the initial shock of becoming an older brother, he seemed to worry more that he was in trouble for attacking Superman. 

"That's quite a swing you've got there to bend the bar," Clark smiled at him to ease the lingering discomfort. “It came out of nowhere. I wouldn’t have heard your approach without the powers.” 

“You think?” Dick perked up at the compliment. “Not that many people can boast knocking out Superman and you got that crowbar good too!” With Bruce shooting him a warning parental glare, Dick took a large bite out of his baked chicken, swallowing the rest of his comment how this sort of made him awesome. The teen was relieved when Superman chuckled at his achievement checkmark.

“You must be maintaining your training vigorously.” 

“Somewhat,” Dick helped himself swallow by gulping down some orange juice. “With all the exams, there isn’t enough time to travel between the cities to train in Gotham. Still, there's plenty to do where I attend university. We've spent a week together in my city when Batman showed up to investigate a few leads. Otherwise, I’m on my own. I came over to upgrade the Robin suit. It doesn’t fit me anymore.” 

With the comment surfaced a memory how Bruce disappeared after their night together. Maybe he had left because Dick had called him and not because he wasn’t interested in deepening their relationship? No. Clark cut off that thought, refusing to raise his hopes again even if it was against his nature to succumb to gloom. These daydreams tended to leave him with an empty heart. A man like Batman wouldn’t have been stopped by a delay from saying something afterwards.

“Perhaps, you need a different costume since you’ve grown up,” Clark suggested, pushing away his doubts. “Nightwing also started his crime fighting career early and changed his appearance when he matured.”

“Now, that's a cool name!” Alfred caught Dick’s hand that was frolicking, dangerously armed with a fork, and motioned it into a proper position. “Who’s that?” 

“He was a hero on Krypton,” Clark explained. "Plenty of literature is written about his adventures. The stories featuring him were one of the first things I found in my ship's database. I enjoyed reading them as a teen, even at night under the blanket." 

Again, Alfred guided Dick's hand into a safe position who was raising a potato pieced on a fork up in the air.

"Did he have any super powers?"

"I find, most importantly he had great courage guided by quick thinking and craftiness," 

As Clark vividly recalled one of his favourite Nightwing stories, the young man listened avidly, not forgetting to chew very fast. The student life hardly treated him to the good homemade meals. Between him and Clark the dishes were cleaned out quickly. 

Raised by Batman, one could have imagined the young man would be reserved, but Dick was a lively person armed with wit and a fair amount of secretiveness when it came to withholding some facts. Observing his subtle interaction with the family members, Clark had no doubt that Bruce raised a fine young man and he was going to be a good father to their child.


	35. Chapter 35

"Dear shoppers! Thank you for visiting the Metropolis Center. Enjoy your holidays with the special offers and seasonal sales!" the mall loudspeakers announced before bursting into another round of merry melodies. 

The pre-Christmas hustle was summed up by the two fountains of confetti set off by the Santa's makeshift stage decorated by the pine wreaths and garlands where the jolly old man in red was taking pictures with kiddies. In front of him, an elf was dangling a varicoloured bird by the camera to grab the attention of a bouncy two year old. Clark stopped to observe the amusing activity. 

"Santa!" a toddler next to him called out, pointing at the bench excitedly. 

"Sure, you say Santa, but you don't like Santa," his father chuckled. Apparently, the toddler was old enough to understand that Santa meant something good, but didn't actually like taking pictures on the lap of a stranger who had a large cotton beard. The child continued tapping his foot lightly against his father's stomach, paying no heed to the comment. 

Would their baby also twirl this way and that in his arms carried across the mall and point out all the interesting objects or be more subdued and observe the world at a distance? Clark was overwhelmed by tenderness that made his eyes water when he thought about their child. 

The green donation boxes set up by the Santa's shop implored the crowd not to remain indifferent. The toy store nearby beckoned kids with a multitude of the brightly decorated packages. As Clark went in sharing the joyful mood, the kids zoomed underfoot, grabbing toys off the shelves to beg their well predisposed parents to buy them. There was a doll with a pale blue hair looking down onto the visitors like an ice queen and a train full of animals peeking out of the wagons' glowing windows that could have made some little kids very happy. Clark picked up both. His mother had long given away most of his toys for charity with the exception of a couple of her son's favourite things that she kept for herself. The tradition of donating the toys remained with Clark. After moving away from Smallville he didn't miss a year.

A white teddy bear had its paw raised in greeting from a heap of stuffed toys. Its intelligent black eyes glimmered with optimism that one day someone special would notice it even if the toy was gradually sinking lower unclaimed. Clark added the toy to his selection. It was tempting to browse the baby section as well, but he still needed to make the additional purchases, plus to buy various presents for his family and Bruce's. While Clark knew what his family appreciated, it was a mystery what the dark knight might like or what he would at least tolerate. 

The reporter paid for the toys and made a short trip back to the donation box where he left the prettily wrapped doll and the train. After a brief hesitation, Clark kept the teddy bear that was hugging his shoulder with the soft paws like an old friend. With a goofy smile refusing to abate, he carried this prize into an underwear shop not far from the escalators on the second floor. This was the kind of store Clark most assuredly hadn't ventured into with Bruce present during their shopping escapade. This store was fairly subdued. The floor assistants gave room to the shoppers, although, one of them looked at his backside in an evaluating way. 

To escape the stare, Clark stepped around an isle that covered him up to the waist to search for what he hoped was the right size, opting for something bigger to accommodate the changing body. The reporter chose some cotton underwear he was accustomed to. Another pair of the boxer-briefs caught his eye on the way to the cash register. The item belonged more to the seduction category he never tried. The red material, a shade darker than his cape, caressed the skin. His cheeks acquired the same colour with Martha Kent putting certain ideas into his mind. He didn't need silky underwear. It's not like he was going to parade in the boxers and cape in front of Bruce. Still, the material was nice to the touch and didn't irritate the skin. No one was going to see anyway whether the garment was sexy or not. It was wise to listen to his mother. Clark added the item to his purchases after all and then with the teddy bear riding on his shoulder resumed his presents buying crusade. 

At the end of the day with the presents in tow, the reporter called his parents and told them he was planning to drop by on Christmas.

*********************************************************************************************************************************************

"Mom, when did you know you wanted to spend the rest of your life with dad?" 

They were resting on the couch, mother and son, an embroidered quilt wrapped around them binding the family. A streaming whiff of raspberry tea in two cups was mixing with a delicious pecan pie aroma or rather a leftover third of it. 

Jonathan was out taking advantage of the cleaned road after a lasting discussion with their neighbour about the stroke of luck that a snow truck passed through the area. Such things always made Martha secretly proud because it was Clark who blew the waist deep snow off the local road on the way home. 

"I suppose you could be attracted to different people," he told her, "but that hardly means you could build a family bond with them. How do you know this person is the right one for you?" 

"There was no defining moment, nothing like a strike of thunder," said Martha. "The connection was built over time. We lived and shared those common, everyday things like washing the dishes together. Gradually, it all intertwined until I no longer knew where I ended and your father began."

"I see."

Clark rested his forehead against her in thought. Sensing his contemplation wasn't distressed, yet filled with doubt, Martha patted his shoulder to let her son know he wasn't alone. While Clark was affectionate, he rarely expressed it flamboyantly, mostly remaining composed. He was reserved in touching the others least he accidentally squeezed them too tight. With the baby on the way, this changed somewhat. Her son craved contact and cuddled to his accepting parent whenever he could. 

With Superman gone saving the world so often, it was tempting to bask in his presence and ask him to spend the Christmas Eve with his parents. It was too selfish since his place had to be by the side of his child's father. Clark told her that Alfred was planning a family dinner because Bruce's son was coming to the Wayne Manor that evening. This had to be a good time to form a stronger bond as she was aware that her son wasn't engaged.

Thus, Martha blessed her son and bundled the gifts for the Waynes into his shoulder bag with the strict instructions to pass them. Clark insisted on opening his present before he left, knowing full well that seeing his reaction was important to his mother. Clark kissed her and neatly arranged a scarf Martha had knitted around his neck. 

The concerned mother wrapped her arms around his waist, never doubting that Clark would solve the inner conflict in the fairest way possible. Meanwhile, she was going to hold him for as long as he needed. The reporter patted her hand, expressing gratitude for the silent support. The Kent household always remained cozy. The traditionally decorated Christmas tree added to the holiday spirit in the living room. A mismatched assembly of the wooden figurines and glass balls sparkled in the lanterns perched up on the pine branches. 

Clark remembered his first Christmas. Still unsteady on his feet, he was desperately reaching for a bottom branch to hang a rocking horse onto it. The miniature toy seemed so big to the toddler clutching it. He fumbled for a good grip while the branch pricked him. 

Jonathan never told the child to put down the ornament in fear that he was going to break it, not that Clark never dropped anything. The farmer picked up his son and lifted him up high with the toy, letting him choose the best place for the ornament until the toddler after many more needle pricks secured the toy and giggled delighted by their success. 

These were the memories Superman cherished no matter how far across the universe he ventured and this was what he wanted their child to hold dear too. 

"When the baby is born, I would like to bring him or her to this home. I want my child to decorate a tree with these Christmas toys like I did once," Clark spoke up thoughtfully. 

"You will. Never doubt that," Martha hugged him tight. "This home loves you both." 

*********************************************************************************************************************************************

The Wayne household cutlery was so well polished that Clark was able to see his reflection in the tiniest spoon. Alfred was surely humouring him by allowing the restless metahuman to help set up the dinner table while they waited, something the butler had fully mastered while the younger man leapt hopefully at the tiniest sounds mistaking them for the footsteps. Neither older nor younger Masters were still at home. That's why Clark eagerly volunteered to open the door when the bell rang.

It was Dick in person. His cheeks were coloured by the biting wind and his mood was cheerful as the teen shook a layer of snow off his shoulders and cantered into the living room.

"Whoa!" Dick expressed his loud appreciation upon finding an impressive green mound reaching up as high as the ceiling at the center of the room. "That's the best tree I've ever seen!"

As the holidays grew closer and the Manor remained undecorated, Clark asked the butler whether the family followed tradition. Alfred explained that mostly Dick was responsible for keeping up with the holidays. With the teen attending the university no one was overseeing the task. The butler also expressed concern that Dick was going to be disappointed when he came, which made Clark feel useful in volunteering to find something that wouldn't crowd the place too much.

"I'm not sure how this happened," the hero confessed dismally. "I was planning on getting something a lot more modest." Maybe because the Wayne Manor was so large, while his home in Kansas lacked such grandeur, that subconsciously prompted him to find something bigger. 

"This is brilliant," Dick grinned ear to ear. "But, how come it isn't decorated?"

"I thought it would be too much. It's your family who has the prerogative to decorate the tree according to your traditions."

"Hey, it doesn't hurt to combine different traditions. We have plenty of stuff from the previous Christmases. Let's add those toys!"

Chuckling, Clark allowed the teen to drag him along. Turned out, there was a place at the Wayne Manor that had plenty of dust and cobwebs, as well as the bats, which spooked by the attic trespassers, breezed past ruffling their hair. Mindful of the habitat, the pair collected as many boxes as fit in their arms to avoid making the trips back and disturbing the attic inhabitants as little as possible. 

The spider webs lingered in their hair as the duo made their way back to the tree laughing and began weaving a decorative spell around it. While the style was much to be desired, the tree was turning out bountifully bright. A number of mistletoes and bows of holly were added around the room upon Alfred's recommendation, who showed up and thoroughly dusted off both Christmas toys raiders.

Stealthy as a ninja on a secret mission, Bat snuck into the room and began an investigation of the foreign objects occupying the place and the armchair the kitten had claimed as his own. While he had grown used to the tree over a couple of days, the wide scale of a rustling, ruffling and wiggling objects awed the feline that froze transfixed by a glass pinecone hanging from a lower branch. Its golden glory reflected in the kitten's eyes whose tail began to tap against the carpet in rhythm and a little song played in his mind. 

"Oh Christmas Tree,  
Oh Christmas Tree,  
Your ornaments are history!" 

"Oh no you don't!" Dick laughed, intercepting a leap as the kitten pounced towards the first target. 

Bat mewled in protest, but didn't sulk long because he was dropped onto the carpet next to a massive tinsels pile that stunned the little kitty mind and Bat gleefully launched into it. 

"It must be handy being able to fly to decorate," Dick noted as Clark floated up to whichever part of the tree he wanted to hang a bright red ball with the fragile snowflakes glittering around its circumference. 

The teenager picked up a top piece angel. The hem of a white robe this figurine was draped into was worn out, but it had an aura of a beloved object that had long served the family. Nostalgically, Dick adjusted the angel's wings. A ticklish, almost magical feeling emerged as he was lifted out of nowhere and carried to the tree top.

"I thought you shouldn't lift anything heavy," the teen voiced his concern.

"The Moon is heavy. You aren't much," Clark chuckled.

"Uh, I guess I don't weigh much to you," Dick grinned, pleased that his damage was limited to the crowbar. He took his time setting up the angel, so it glowed just right at the very top of their masterpiece. The angel's halo caught the light from the crystal chandelier. 

Superman held him a little longer to let Dick take in the view of the living room from the top before returning the teen to the floor where Clark's pet was soundly voicing his displeasure at his present predicament. With a smile, Clark bent down to free the wiggling furball from the tinsels entanglement where only a fluffy bum with an irritably twitching tail was sticking out. The metahuman sucked in his breath and gave up on picking up the kitten at a painful jab in the abdomen. 

"Are you ok?" Dick moved to his side quickly and took Clark's elbow to guide him into sitting down. "Would you like some water?" 

"Thank you. I'm all right. It's just the ligament pain." At the end of the active days the reporter occasionally suffered a brief, stabbing pain whenever he changed the position too quickly. This day had certainly been a busy one. The clock was crawling past eleven, whereas, he was usually asleep by ten. Nonetheless, Clark was determined not to miss the Christmas Eve and wait for Bruce to come home. By keeping busy, everyone at the Wayne household managed to avoid dwelling on a source of unrest that grew the closer the clock hand travelled to twelve. Would Bruce make it or was he doomed to spend the evening elsewhere away from his family? 

Dick's mind travelled to his adoptive father too because he spoke up looking at the angel in thought that belayed both tenderness and sadness. "Dad gave this to me on the eve of the first Christmas at this house. It took a long time to adjust after my parents died and Bruce... I can't say he made it easy, at least not from the child's perspective, but now I know better that he was trying. I saw it clearer when he presented the toy just like that without the box or ribbons. He was always reserved even cold at times and it conflicted so much with his choice to give me an angel. Maybe he wanted another guardian to watch over me because he felt he couldn't be it in a way he thought he should be."

"Angels represent hope," said Clark, thinking that it was Bruce's unique way of showing that he wanted to build a bond and become a good example to the orphaned boy. "He wanted..." but Clark didn't get to voice the sentiment because they heard the front door open.


	36. Chapter 36

It was strange seeing Bruce Wayne arrive through the door casually rather than sweeping into the window on the wings of night or taking a leap from the cracks in between the walls and shadows. The dark knight brought with him a whiff of the crisp wind that left rosy marks across his cheeks and a flurry of snowflakes that peppered his hair white. They swirled onto Clark's sleeve as the vigilante brushed them off casually, acknowledging Dick's enthusiastic greeting with a faint smile. 

The teen, bearing a great deal of energy, motioned the adults into the dining room where a perfectly set table was awaiting with Alfred's excelling effort, who looked impeccable in black and white. The butler was shortly convinced to share the meal at the table where everyone settled on serving their neighbour, which resulted in much plate shuffling and mayhem. Foremost, the crown dish was the turkey. The juiciest slices were soaked in cranberry sauce and melted against the tongue.

Bruce and Alfred enjoyed champagne, while Dick sulked mostly jokingly that he was stuck with the orange juice until Clark asked him to keep him company as he wasn't allowed alcohol either, not that he liked it even when he could drink those brews. 

"Dick, don't feed the cat under the table. The sauce might drip onto the carpet." Contrary to his advice, Bruce slipped a piece that escaped his fork to the feline that targeted him next by putting the ticklish paws against his leg and purring. 

The fireplace cracked merrily, taking its role as the primary illumination vigorously and rising bright. Clark found he liked the cozy atmosphere. Not feeling up for being engaging, he supported the conversation minimally, allowing Dick to do most of the story telling about adjusting his life away from home. He noted how seriously Bruce took in the details. The baby was very quiet as well. Clark pushed the chair back a notch to place a hand onto his stomach. Catching Bruce's concerned look, he sent reassurance with a faint smile. 

"It might be best to retire to the living room," Alfred announced when Dick grew silent as well. The logs in the fireplace were burned out. The table was cleaned out by a party that abstained from eating for the majority of the day. 

Lured into drifting state by food and warmth, Clark inwardly cringed at the necessity to move. Dick's excitement to start opening the presents helped him to his feet along with a subtle nudge from flight. Clark sincerely hoped the things he got were appropriate and would be liked.

Picking up the boxes at the bottom of the tree, it was easy to distinguish which family they came from. The Waynes used professional wrappers. Each box had symmetrical shape, their sides aligned with a ruler. The Kents rolled their gifts into bundles, securing the loose ends threatening to crawl apart with tape. The living room was shortly filled with rustling and meows. Bat poked curious paws into everything, demanding to see what everyone got. The gifts opening resembled more of a ceremony. Everyone was taking turns rather than pouncing into the thick of it all at once. Clark presented his mother's assembly first. Each member of the Wayne's household received a personalised, knitted item. A scarf made for Bruce was different in colour than the one Martha wrapped around Clark, however, they shared the same pattern. 

"Aren't they perfectly matched?" Dick announced, slipping in an intonation that made Clark blush and Bruce glare.

The teen received a pair of mittens and a set of books from Clark. The reporter hoped the gifts weren't too childish since teenagers normally preferred the newest expensive gadgets. 

"Is this a copy of Nightwing's adventures you've extracted from your ship's database?" 

The confirmation was awarded with a sound 'great!' Assuming an all too mysterious aura that said I know something which I won't tell you yet, Dick promised to demonstrate something hidden at the Batcave in a few days. 

Dick and Alfred, who accepted his socks with good grace as one could always use more quality items in the household, were gradually preparing Clark for submitting his offering to Bruce's judgement. The anxiety pricked his skin the closer he got to placing a square box into the host's hands. 

Bruce stiffened as he regarded the box mutely and then tugged at the yellow bow. Two finely crafted cufflinks made out of precious metal dropped into the palm of his hand. Bruce raised them to the light to read two words, engraved one on each - best dad.

"I know you have doubts. But, this is what I truly believe," Clark told him, meeting an unreadable look. 

"Thank you." Bruce removed the cufflinks he wore and pinned the new ones into place. "I have something for you as well. The crate arrived a few hours ago. I came late due to collecting it." 

Alfred must have been in on the secret because during the discussion he retired to the kitchen and returned with a plate that had a single fruit laid out on it at the center of the decorative petals.

"What's this?"

"This could be the most disgusting thing you have ever eaten in your entire life." 

In spite of the lacklustre presentation, the fruit emanated a divine scent as soon as Clark peeled a strip of a thin skin. The flavour was matching, elusively reminding him of something homely that was a part of him as Clark popped an orange-like slice into his mouth. Taking a second bite, it dawned on him.

"Bruce... This must be what kumaivas taste like!" the metahuman stared at his benefactor in amazement. "But... where did you get them? They don't exactly grow in any corner of this universe." 

"Krypton."

"Come on..."

"I've provided the genetic composition, obtained from the Fortress database, to the newly founded genetic labs in Indonesia. They've integrated the most successful hybrid and collected the harvest in a few months. Providing the result is to your liking, there will be future production." 

To think there was an entire crate of these delicacies! Bruce opened a new science department and bought land half way across the globe just because Clark mentioned once that he had a food craving. The metahuman laughed, sweeping the vigilante off his feet and waltzing across the room in midair with him. It had to be the best present in his life! 

"You've done so much for me! What can I do to thank you?"

What indeed? 

The most powerful being on the planet asked innocently what he could do for Bruce without considering the magnitude of that offer. The exploiting was far from his mind because a strikingly handsome man was asking what he could do when their lips were temptingly close and Bruce was looking into the cornflower eyes that were aglow with tenderness. 

"Put me down," the vigilante requested grumpily.

His request was granted, but there were a few wicked ahems and a purposeful look shared between Dick and Alfred.

"Would it not be proper to heed the tradition?" Alfred inquired. His glance travelled to a stack of mistletoe neatly tucked right above their heads. 

Bruce became as rigid as a Yule log when Clark leaned in like he wanted to act on the threat. 

With a huff the metahuman pulled back. "It might not be such a good idea," he offered. Before Bruce felt a pang of disappointment as the other made two steps away, Clark swiftly turned and a kiss was dropped onto Bruce's cheek. "Which doesn't mean it shouldn't be acted on!" The Kryptonian added with such an angelic smile like he guaranteed himself a place among saints by doing so.

"Dick, were you not planning on subjecting us to one of those romantic comedies?" the vigilante inquired due to every single person staring at him like they expected him to return the gesture. 

"I picked a musical this time and how come you still have a stack of copies in the living room if you so dislike them?" 

"Most likely due to my busy schedule of throwing out all Gotham trash to also worry about the content you place into my living room." 

For some reason it didn't look like anyone believed him. Thus bickering, they got the TV sorted out and the screen came to life. Because Dick hopped into an armchair and Alfred sat down wherever he wanted, Bruce ended up sharing the couch with Clark. Within half an hour, the metahuman began drifting off, assuming that Bruce's shoulder made an excellent pillow. 

Apparently, his shoulder was no longer his. Unwilling to disturb the family atmosphere, which they shared so rarely, by moving, Bruce allowed the invasion into his private space once more. Dick leaned in to whisper something to Alfred. The music enveloped the family, dancing with the wavering candle flames. It was growing distant. 

Bruce woke up cosily pressed against a warm body. It was becoming predictable that falling asleep anywhere with Clark in the vicinity meant they were going to end up entangled. Rather than prompting him awake when they have fallen asleep while watching the movie with the metahuman perched on his shoulder, Alfred wrapped a blanket around the pair. Sometimes in their sleep, Bruce's hand snuck under the reporter's shirt and came to rest on his stomach. The skin was silky and warm against his palm. A hope emerged that he might be able to feel the child move, but the baby remained quiet, either napping or still too small to let the father know that he or she knew about the parent.

The slightest change in his breathing must have nudged the metahuman awake. Clark stirred and blinked sleepily. As a realisation dawned on him that he was crowding Bruce's personal space again, he tried to escape the hold. 

"Don't get up too abruptly. It might make you dizzy," Bruce intercepted the motion. Seeing that metahuman was still drowsy he offered. "It's only eight o'clock in the morning and we stayed up late. You can rest longer if you want to. I'm not planning to move."

"You don't have anything more important to do?"

Bruce witnessed this first in the watchtower medical bay. At the moments like these, when Clark just woke up with his hair disarrayed and with dreams lingering underneath dark eyelashes, he didn't look like a being capable of diverting a burning comet from its trajectory. With a shirt imprint on his cheek, he was the picture of a man who desired little, to bury his nose into a pillow and distance himself from the world in the soft folds if only for five more minutes. The instinct acted ahead of him when Bruce kissed that imprint on Clark's cheek. 

"I haven't paid the dues for standing under that mistletoe," he excused the gesture. 

This was sufficient to ease Clark into settling down for a while longer, but he didn't go back to sleep. 

Their silence wasn't burdensome. If anything, it bore the gravity brining them miniscule distances closer, breath by breath, and throwing Bruce Wayne into the grip of contradictions. There were also external factors separating them every time they came close enough. Lying there, Bruce couldn't quite forgive himself the complacency when some people like the detective were waiting for him to extract information for the Scott. 

"You're at it again."

He was startled by Clark's voice reverberating in his chest. 

"You have that aura where your thoughts are preparing you to bolt out the window at the slightest provocation."

"Some things are unavoidable."

Bruce felt the strain of him clamming shut. Alfred already reminded him too often that war couldn't be wedged every moment of his life. The dark knight didn't need another voice berating him like a sulky child. 

"Sometimes I really wish I could help," Clark voiced without accusation. "But, I know you don't want anyone underfoot on your top secret missions." 

"This one isn't all that secret," Bruce snorted. "You can help all you want." 

"You mean it?"

The excitement was palpable. Aside from the ever present Boy Scout desire to help everyone, there was veiled longing Bruce couldn't help but identify with. He would have been driven insane forced into ceasing his activity for a few months. 

"I'd hardly expect any fun watching from the sidelines. I'm meeting an Irishman at a pub who can drink a horse under a table with the intention of getting him drunk enough to become talkative about something he's stubbornly set on not revealing." 

"I'll come!" Superman claimed decisively. 

It was most tempting to take his offer back when Clark's lips bent with amusement, which the country boy was unable to withhold like he expected an entertaining spectacle. 

"I doubt I'll be bored."


	37. Chapter 37

13th... was it a glass or a bottle? His hazy thoughts were accompanied by a pleasant buzz. The pub swam, curtained by heavy smoke out of which came abrupt laughter along with the sounds of fists splitting lips and breaking noses as not a moment ago friends turned enemies and back. His leg was numbed, pressing against some sack every time Bruce tried to straighten it. The situation made sense. What he didn't understand was the presence of a person he hardly associated with such places coming to tackle his right to be there.

"You've drank your buddy well under the table. You can mark it as mission accomplished when your foot is resting atop of his head."

The only part of the lecture Bruce liked were the lips saying it. Clark Kent never ceased to be attractive even when he imposed his Boy Scout ideals onto other people. 

"Scowling. Leave it to the professionals hence you aren't competent at it or at least have a drink first," Bruce countered the offer.

"You don't remember why we're here? Sometimes you do your job a little too well," at last the metahuman exchanged a frown for a glimpse of amusement before leaning in enticingly close. “Come with me,” Clark whispered into his ear. The breath tickled him and Bruce imagined quite a lot of promise in the little statement. “I need to tell you something.”

"Do tell."

A glass Bruce intended to bring along was pried from his fingers. Shame as he hadn't spilled a drop. He didn't regret the trade off. Deprived of something to hold, Bruce flung his arm around the escort and grabbed his rear. He was pressed deliciously close to that fine body, intending to speed along getting outside. A muscular arm settled around his waist, motioning Bruce towards the exit, nearly carrying him as his legs weren’t exactly obeying. He slouched generously against the support. 

The sidewalk greeted them with an icy blast of wind and an ankle deep snow aiming into the cracks where the top of the boots ended. If it was meant to make a sobering impression it failed. 

Bruce spun around unsteadily, shifting in his escort's grip to face Clark directly and looped his arms around the other’s shoulders. Slouching against the metahuman didn’t prevent Bruce from rising on his tiptoes to attempt claiming a kiss from those lips, set in an uncustomary strict line. His grip slipped off and Bruce adjusted it, postponing on reaching the target. “So, what it is that you wanted to discuss with me?” the vigilante reminded, seductively pressing his entire body to Clark’s who had to grab his wrists gently and lower them to ward off a renewed attention of the wandering hands stroking his sides. 

“I wanted to tell you that I’m taking you home. You’re quite drunk and you’re going to regret making these advances tomorrow morning."

“Home?” The vigilante exclaimed horribly disappointed. He made a sour grimace as an undistinguishable car pulled up to the sidewalk. “Do you know you’re extremely sexy when you’re frowning like that?” he informed Clark. “Those sweet lips pressed together tight. I wander about the secrets they’d bare when one finds the right key to unlock them.” 

Clark swallowed. As much as this was awkward, and the excessive amount of alcohol earned his disapproval, those gaily advances with a hint of Brucie in them weren’t entirely ineffective. The driver seat door opened and Alfred emerged to find out what was happening.

“I won’t take advantage of the situation which will embarrass you tomorrow,” the metahuman warned.

“Please do take advantage of me.” 

Hopeful an action would be more helpful, Clark pulled the door open. 

“I don’t want to get into the car!” Bruce declared petulantly and grabbed onto the sides, digging his heels into the sidewalk at the slight provocation to do as he was bid. 

Draped in a brown coat that created a false impression in which part of town he worked, the butler observed the skirmish impassively. While it was probably wiser to let him reason with the mutinous Wayne offspring, Clark didn't want to give up yet. There lingered an inner inking to prove to Alfred that he was capable of dealing with Bruce in any situation.

“Please, just cooperate for once.”

But, subduing Bruce even with the help of the super strength proved complicated without breaking a limb as the vigilante expertly twisted out of any restraint. The billionaire playboy had none of his freedoms to party all night infringed on. It was easier to stuff an enraged cat on steroids back into a sack. Several attempts later, Clark gave up on the forceful approach. 

“Do you know that people kiss in the cars?” he whispered into the man’s ear promisingly.

An arm flew around Clark’s waist and they toppled into the salon haphazardly intertwined with most of Bruce’s weight atop of him. Alfred slammed the door shut in relief. Bruce used the circumstances to sprawl all over his intended. Trepidation and desire clashing, Clark swallowed. He did make a promise. He expected a sensual onslaught immediately, but Bruce was looking at him intently like he was studying something intricate like a snowflake.

“Shall I compare thee to the summer’s day? Thou art more lovely and more beautiful...” 

As the rhymes gushed forth, Clark stared, having expected anything but the poetry. In spite of the slur, the intonations fell perfectly, enriching the lyrics, like the man reading them understood the profound soul of one of the greatest poets in history and the enormous feeling the lines conveyed. When his voice fell to silence, Bruce reached out to caress the reporter's jaw. It was nothing like drunk groping. The touch was tender. 

“You will regret this tomorrow,” Clark tried to keep his voice soothing and reasonable. While there was a physical attraction, neither of them was so shallow as to revel in a night of drink induced passion. They strived for a meaningful connection. 

“The only thing I regret is not kissing you all evening.”

Bruce's cheeks were flushed and bangs disarrayed. His face was touched by rapture. The silver eyes burned Clark with temptation and devoured with want as Bruce leaned forth to claim a kiss. The parted lips firmly bent on seduction drifted closer. With a tinge of an expensive brandy, they were a breath away from melting against Clark's lips. 

With a sound gulp Bruce’s head dropped onto his shoulder, dead asleep. Clark let out his breath, confused whether it was of relief or disappointment. He scrambled out of their highly compromising position and sat up with Bruce clinging to him like a vine. When the vigilante’s head slid off his shoulder, Clark guided it back, wrapping his arms securely around his charge. The special vision dipped past the skin level and dived into the bloodstream, emerging quite concerned. Once they’ve reached the Wayne manor, Clark got out of the car and floated to Bruce’s bedroom to avoid jostling him by walking.

“How is he?” Alfred prompted, concern visible beneath the ever unruffled expression. 

“He won’t like waking up with an alcohol poisoning,” Clark sighed.

The metahuman deposited his charge on the bed and hesitantly left the bedroom letting Alfred take over, while desperately wishing he could have stayed. Only family was allowed beyond this point. All those playboy games were merely a cover. They weren’t really a couple. This clever deception twisted his heart that fluttered like a trapped bird as it prayed for more than a mere illusion. 

______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

The unholy ringing was ought to be banned from this part of the galaxy. A couple of explosive pitched batarangs were surely going to shut it off for good. The dreamful vengeance against the sound got dismantled by a sour realisation that its source originated inside his head. Bruce dragged his eyelids apart, discovering two individuals solely set on staring at him like he was a museum exhibit displayed in the instinct section. One face was creased by a disapproving concern, while the other aimed for a hopeful half-smile that didn't disguise how worried he was. 

"How do you feel? Do you remember what you were doing yesterday?" the metahuman broke the silence first, disrupting the butler's stare which was conveying, 'That was decisively bad for your health. What would your parents say had they known I allowed you to do this?' 

“I can’t remember anything aside from Scott’s repulsive face,” the vigilante ground out. That hardly compelling image required the same amount of alcohol he had consumed earlier to be erased.

“You were discussing some of the finer points of poetry.”

“I don’t know any poetry,” Bruce grumbled and pulled the covers over his aching head. They were mercilessly pulled off and the investigation victim was presented with a glass that emanated a repugnant stench. If the metahuman was capable of fidgeting, that's how Bruce would have described it. Clark looked like he was expecting an acrid rejection flung at his head. 

“I made this for you. It doesn’t look great, but according to the Fortress of Solitude database it was an ancient hangover remedy, not that Krypton society suffered much from the alcoholism during the past few centuries.”

The silly Boy Scout went into all that trouble over the course of the night to do something so ridiculous. Bruce eyed the bubbling, green stuff that had an appearance of a substance derived from the witch’s cauldron a drop of which was capable of befalling a mammoth. It smelled worse than it looked. The vigilante chanced a look at Clark and sunk into the depths of the hopeful blue eyes. Bracing himself for most likely completing the swallow in the afterlife, Bruce took a sip with his expression set in stone.

Ugh! Yuck! Blergh! What was that horrible concoction made out of? Kryptonite? No wonder their society’s alcohol problem had been eradicated if they had to drink this stuff after! Who authorized this biochemical hazard on planet Earth? 

That’s right, Clark did. Superman hovered about anxiously, his face an open book. “Is it all right? It would be terrible if it made you feel worse.” Clark looked horrified at the prospect of inflicting additional suffering. 

Unable to answer because the bile was rising in his throat, Bruce lifted the glass and took more slow sips, chocking down the foul mixture back into his stomach along with the better tasting bile, until he emptied the glass. 

“How do you feel?”

Bruce recalled the goo a giant Sicilian squid had exploded into post battle with his internals hanging off the lamp posts across the coastal city. Compared to the giant squid… 

“Spectacular.” 

Too bad they didn’t have this horrific stuff back in Sicily to obliterate the monster without Justice League having to lift a finger. At least he didn’t sacrifice his body for nothing. Now that Batman had enough information to bust the entire gang, due to the information he had pried from Scott, they were going to pay for his suffering. Bruce made it all the way to the door before the room tilted and his knees gave out. He was caught and carried back to bed. Clark was frowning at his feeble attempt to escape. 

"I do not recall needing anyone's permission to leave my house."

His argument would have been more convincing had his stomach not chosen to twist into a bitter knot and he got shaken by violent spasms. Even in the far more favourable circumstances Bruce strongly preferred having his inner nature concealed including the guts and liver. 

When the abominable retching ceased, Bruce realised that instinct allowed him to lean against the supporting weight of Clark’s chest and remain that way longer than necessary. The vigilante promptly distanced himself from the hold, giving the reporter a look that demanded from the metahuman to get off the bed instantly. Once his personal space was un-invaded, Bruce lay down and reclaimed the covers. Letting everyone know their presence was unwanted, Bruce covered his head with a pillow. With Alfred blocking the door there was no way out. Maybe if he convinced the two sentinels that he was asleep, they would go away and he could go about his business to bust a gang that should have been eradicated fifteen minutes ago. The treacherous churching in his stomach resumed just from the thought of moving. The dark knight forced down the physical trivialities, ready to go. Too bad the others still remained in the room. 

There was a suspicious silence and then the bed tilted, and Clark climbed atop of the covers next to him with a notepad from the Watchtower in hand. The action forced Bruce to lift the pillow and glower at the offender through a crack. 

“Who invited you?”

“Alfred believes we must keep an eye on you and I think you are going to run away to fight crime as soon as I step out of the room.” 

"I thought you operated on blind naivety and trust." 

"Then may I have your word of honour that you won't leave this house for the rest of the day?" 

Bruce snorted and the Kryptonian went back to leafing through his notepad. 

“This is the list of the defensive mechanisms against any external threats the League has been compiling,” he informed when Bruce tried to steal a glance.

The dark knight bit back a suggestion to add the hangover concoction to the top of that list. Maybe that horrible bubbly goo was working after all because the headache receded by half, which still left an elephant with a shotgun hopping around and shooting his brain cells. That review was going to take several years to complete. Bruce sure wasn't going to wait that long. Since merely growling at the pair and shrugging them off didn't work, it was time for the plan B.

Bruce threw off the covers decisively and swung his legs down. “Bathroom!” he growled at the instantly suspicious look. “Do I need your written permission?”

Clark had the grace to blush and quickly look down at the pad, freeing the dark knight to sweep across the room and bolt the door behind him. The shower he turned on for cover looked inviting, while having his skin sticky with sweat and his breath emanating a mix of alcohol and Kryptonian witch reject recipe was hardly helpful. Frowning at another delay, he stepped in for a quick rinse. It was satisfactory, viciously scrubbing the stench off his skin. The relief only lasted until Bruce stood on a slippery windowsill, having dried off and reclaimed his clothes. The snow crunched, freezing under his bare foot. Ignoring another dizzy spell, Bruce leapt down, regretting that choice in mid-air as he got disoriented. Mentally, he braced for a haphazard landing. 

There was no impact. Bruce was caught and pressed to a warm body shielding him from the frostbite as Superman carried him back to his room. Meddling alien. Was it not natural to assume that when someone was trying to get away from you, they didn’t want you around? The vigilante tried to snap, but felt sick once more. His eyes squeezed shut in displeasure after another bout of puking. Recovering, when they opened again, he was already moved to another place where the covers were awfully soft and the room was filled with the horribly bright light. That’s right Clark’s room had the biggest windows. Bruce buried his head under a pillow. 

“This isn’t my room,” he objected. 

“Your room smells like puke.”

“So will yours now.”

Bruce didn’t point out that they could have used any other of the twenty guest rooms scattered across the mansion. Clark shut the drapes, allowing the soothing shade to fill the space, before climbing atop of the covers next to his host and resuming the reading. 

The dark knight hated to admit that Clark’s clam presence was affecting him. Bruce ever mistrusted that soothing desire to relax in Superman’s presence. There was nothing more dangerous than loosing his guard. The invasive feeling always worked in reverse, having him spike up defensively and grow more alert. But, at home where he felt the safest, the relaxing aura of the man beside him was gradually enveloping him with pliancy and stripping away the vigilance. 

“Bruce?” Clark’s voice was hesitant and there was a slight tremor at proposing a clearly violent solution. “The next time you need information, just dangle that guy off a bridge.”


End file.
